


Legacy

by Lmere



Category: Eragon (2006), The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Implied Assassination Attempts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Character Death, Swordplay, Tornacsson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lmere/pseuds/Lmere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone and on the run, all Toren Tornacsson wants is to find his family and get out of the Broddring Empire. But the world has other plans, and when Toren stumbles onto a boy's hunt in the Spine, everything begins to move in a different direction.<br/>With an unusual burn on his leg, and somehow travelling with people he doesn't know or trust, what will do Toren to find his father and his brother again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to Paolini, and others when due.  
> I'm taken certain... artistic liberties here and there, but have tried to keep them to a minimum. Feel free to contact me with any questions.
> 
> By some miracle or mistake, I'm on Tumblr! You can message me there, or just sit back and laugh as I stumble my way through life...  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lmere19

            "Tornac!"

            At the unfamiliar voice, I looked up from the blade I was polishing, listening to footsteps crossing the yard outside. In a flash, I was on my feet, scurrying across the room and flattening my back against the wall, peering round the corner to watch two figures approaching Father. One was a guard, dressed in the familiar dark uniform and shining helmet, carrying a spear upright by his side. A few steps behind him shuffled a young boy, roughly the same age as me, who kept his head down. Father looked between them with a frown on his face as the guard spoke. After only a few seconds, he waved him over and the pair moved closer to the doorway where I remained concealed, leaving the boy alone.

            "This isn't a request," the guard said, his voice low. "It comes from the king himself."

            Father ran a hand through his light hair, smearing more oil into it. "And that's really him? I thought he'd be older."

            The guard shrugged and Father sighed.

            "Alright. Thanks, Barrett."

            The guard clapped Father on the shoulder and turned, striding away as my father returned to stand in front of the boy, who hadn't moved. For a few minutes they spoke to each other, though their voices were too low for me to hear what was said. My eyes constantly returned to the boy, tracing the outline of his tense back.

            "Toren!" At the sound of my name, I jumped guiltily, hesitating for a moment so it wouldn't seem like I'd been eavesdropping. Then I stepped out into the sunlight, squinting at the sudden brightness. Moving to Father's side, I eyed the other boy with curiosity.

            "Murtagh, this is my son, Toren." Father spoke softly, as if a sharp word would send the boy scarpering. I half-agreed. Although he looked to be a year or so older than me, there was a wariness that hung around him like a cloak.

            " 'Lo," I mumbled. Even with his nervous aura, the boy was still a little intimidating, with his tall frame and dark brown hair. He nodded, but didn't return my greeting.

            "The king has instructed me to teach Murtagh to fight," Father said, and I blinked, looking at Murtagh with new eyes. He was lean enough, but with a slightest hint of muscles forming in his arms. Tall already, he would probably only grow taller, giving him a good reach. His sharp gaze met mine as I finished assessing him, and his eyes held a hint of muted anger.  Turning away, I glanced up at Father.

            "Do you think you can help me do that?" he asked. He'd been teaching me how to handle a blade since before I could walk, but I'd never had someone my own age and size to practise with. Grinning, I nodded. Yes, we could teach him. And so we did.

 

\-------------------

 

Sitting in the sun, I admired the play of the light over the blade in my hands as I sharpened it, stone rasping over steel. It was several inches longer than my last sword, but Father swore I would grow out of it much too quickly. It wasn't _really_ mine, just one we'd claimed from the new armoury, but he had promised me one of my own someday. When I'd finished growing. It seemed a long way off. Years.

            Glancing up, the stone paused its noisy work as I watched a woman and her daughter walk past, the little girl's eyes meeting mine before her mother pulled her on. I watched them leave hungrily, my thoughts on the woman who'd birthed me, dead for seven years. I had no memories of her, only what my father had told me and a single image over the fireplace. She'd been a pretty woman, a tumble of curly chestnut hair framing her face. I'd inherited the colour, if not the style. Blinking away the thought, I looked down as more footsteps approached, hiding my face. But the steps didn't continue past, the faltering strides finally coming to a halt.

            "Tor..." The voice was so quiet I nearly missed it, the word fading into nothing as I looked up from my work. The sword went clattering to the ground, forgotten as I leapt to my feet. Murtagh swayed as I sprinted towards him, his face pale, his hand clamped around one side of his throat.

            "Murtagh!" I caught him just as his knees gave way, though his hand remained clamped over his throat. Blood was oozing through his fingers.

            " 'M sorry," he murmured weakly. "Didn't know where else to go."

            I hoisted him up off the ground easily. Endless swordplay with Father had given me enough strength to carry him the few steps to our house and slip inside.

            "Father!" I shouted as I deposited his limp body in a chair.

            He responded to the summons at once, appearing from the stairs and taking in the situation in one quick glance. His face paled to the same shade as Murtagh's as he hurried over.

            I moved to the side, letting him take my place in front of the other boy.

            "Let me see," he said, tilting Murtagh's head back.

            He obeyed, letting his hand fall down, his fingers dripping blood onto the floor.

            I gasped at the wound on his neck. It was deep, and oozing blood, but there was no spurting, no fountains of red. Murtagh was lucky. Very lucky.

            "Get the kit," Father instructed, and I jumped to do so, dashing around the table to the cupboard on the end. Father insisted that we keep a first aid kit in the house. Which, considering the number of weapons that we shared the space with, was a good idea. I'd never been more grateful for it than I was at that moment. My hand left a smear of blood on the surface as I almost threw it across the table and I looked down at my fingers in shock, unsure where the redness had come from. Flipping the box open with one hand, Father pulled out a piece of clean white gauze and pressed it firmly against Murtagh's neck. His grey eyes were sliding shut, but snapped open again at the renewed pressure, letting out a hiss of pain.

            "Easy," Father murmured. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."

            I hoped he was right. There was a lot of blood. But the flow seemed to be slowing. It hadn't soaked through the gauze yet anyway.

            "What happened? Did you fall?" I blurted out, unable to stop myself.

            Murtagh's eyes closed, then opened. He shook his head.

            I frowned. _Then what had happened? How had he gotten such a nasty injury?_

            "Someone," he croaked.

            I stared at him, confused. "Someone? What do you mean _someone_?"

            But Father's face had gone even whiter that it had been before.

            "Someone did this to you," he snarled.

            Murtagh closed his eyes and nodded.

            "Who? Who was it?"

            "I don't know," Murtagh said. "Didn't see their face."

            My lips pulled back in an indignant snarl. I wanted to know who it had been. And I wanted to rip them apart. Then put them back together so I could do it again.

 

\-------------------

 

In perfect silence, I stared into his eyes. He looked straight back at me, unflinching. Five years had made us both taller, but his face was just the same as when I'd first laid eyes on it, all wariness and a sharp gaze. Carefully, I stepped to the left, his gaze flickering down as he tracked the movement, mirroring it perfectly. Halfway through my second step, I changed direction, launching myself forwards, my sword whipping through the air. Taken by surprise at my sudden attack, Murtagh barely raised his weapon in time, the weapons smacking together between us. For half a second our eyes met over the crossed blades before he leapt backwards, twirling his sword so fast it blurred before my eyes. Undeterred, I followed, and we clashed again. Once, twice, three times we came together and danced apart before I slipped past his guard and landed a blow on his right elbow, slashing the weapon across his exposed limb. Swearing, he dropped his sword as his lower arm hung uselessly by his side, deadened by the blow. Panting, I stepped back as my father came forwards. Murtagh glared at me, but I grinned back, unperturbed.

            "Need a rest?" I asked innocently.

            "Shut up!" he snapped, and I raised an eyebrow.

            "Enough," my father said, though he was fighting a smile as he claimed Murtagh's weapon from the ground. Shooting me a look, he turned to Murtagh. "That was good. Don't forget to practise uncrossing your feet. If Toren had advanced fast enough, you would have been tripping over yourself."

            Murtagh nodded, still rubbing his arm.

            My father turned to me, and threw the wooden sword through the air towards me. I snatched it from the air, the hard wood stinging my palm.

            "And you... don't get overconfident," he said, and I grinned. It wasn't a real threat. Whenever I got truly cocky, he would go against me himself. It was a lesson in humility every time. Shaking his head, he turned away.

            Still smirking a little, I wandered the other way, slipping around the wall at the other end of the training ground. It was a dead-end, a narrow passage that used to lead to the weapons store, before it was moved. Now it was nothing more than a sheltered passage to most eyes. Not many people knew that there was a way through. Though the door had been boarded up, the bottom corner was loose. It was a bit more of a squeeze to push through now than it had been three years ago when we'd started coming here, but there was still enough space. I went first, ducking down and wiggling my way through the hole, Murtagh following close behind me, still favouring his left arm.

            "Are you okay?" I asked, nodding to it.

            He snorted. "Yeah, fine," he replied, rotating his elbow a little to work out the pain. It was dark in the room, the only windows high and narrow, but it meant no-one could see in.

            I never asked why Murtagh didn't want to go back to the citadel after our sparring. I'd spent enough time in his presence to notice the looks he was given. And I knew why. My father had admitted it the very first evening after he'd agreed to train Murtagh Morzansson. I couldn't really remember the man, but my father could, and there were too many stories to ignore. But I did my best, keeping my mouth shut. Murtagh knew that I knew, but neither of us ever mentioned his parentage. Sitting down against a wall, wincing slightly at the coldness of the stone, I watched as his face slipped into a blankness I'd seen before. He stared straight ahead as if examining the opposite wall would make it reveal all its secrets to him. For a few minutes I just watched, then I plucked up my courage.

            "Should I ask what you're doing?"

            "Only if you want to know," he replied smoothly. I let that sit for another minute.

            "What are you doing?" I asked eventually, and he grinned without looking around.

            "Practising." I rolled my eyes.

            "Practising what?" At long last he blinked, turning to look at me as if weighing his options.

            "Did you know that some people can break into another's mind?"

            I gave him a look somewhere between scepticism and confusion. He nodded seriously.

            "Who?"

            "Magicians, I think. Or some of them. The king." He hesitated. "The other riders." _Morzan_. "It's not common, but they're out there." I waited. "But, with enough _practice,_ they can be stopped. Thoughts can be defended."

            For a moment I absorbed that. There was no denying that the idea of someone rooting around in my head was not one I looked on fondly.

            "How long have you been doing it?" I asked. Murtagh grimaced.

            "As long as I can remember. Ever since I found out how."

            "Can you teach me?" Startled, he met my unwavering gaze for a moment.

            "It's not easy," he said slowly as if considering. I remained silent and he grinned. "Alright. Something I might actually be better at for once."

            He was right.

 

\-------------------

 

I could tell already that it was going to be a long night. Standing behind my father's shoulder, just tall enough to see over it, I looked out over the sea of people and struggled not to grimace. All around were women in sumptuous dresses and men in their best finery, a range of colours from subtle greys to bright vivid pink. The sound of their bright laughter and mixture of voices, all raised over each other, was an assault on my ears. I would take the clashing of swords over this any day. Sensing my discomfort, Father gripped my elbow, lending a moment of silent support before moving forward into the crowd. Suppressing a sigh, I followed.

            And so started the longest hour of my life. The endless stream of faces and names floated across my mind without registering. They were all the same, full of pleasantries that Father returned with a skill and calm that I could never have pulled off. The talk seemed to be full of nothing but masked compliments and insults that I couldn't always distinguish between. Eventually, as I let my gaze wander around the room in a slight lull, skimming over the faces and clothes, my eyes caught on a slip of movement at the far wall. It took a few moments for me to pinpoint the source, but I finally found it, wearing a face that was reflecting all the emotions I was trying to hide. Tapping my father, I jerked my head across the room and he nodded, understanding at once. Quietly I darted away, rounding the edge of the crowd as I honed in my target with precision learnt long ago on the practice fields. I was only feet away when Murtagh spotted me, his face smoothing out of its scowl into a grimace.

            I grinned as I sidled up next to him. "Having fun?"

            "Obviously," he said, raising a hand as if to run it through his hair, which was growing out alarmingly fast. At the last moment, he dropped it back to his side, as if remembering the smooth locks it had been forced into. Catching my grin, he scowled.

            "Shut up," he snapped grumpily.

            "I barely recognised you," I said, which was absolutely true. Not only was his dark hair lying smooth and sleek, pushed back from his face, but he was dressed in a fine grey outfit, set off by flashes of red at the cuffs, a far cry from his normal dark jerkin and tunic.

            "I don't recognise myself," he muttered, tugging self-consciously at the sleeves.

            Forcing back a snigger, I looked away, watching the crowd ebb and flow as groups formed and broke.

            "Does this sort of thing happen often?" I asked, my gaze roving over the nobles.

            "Often enough," Murtagh grouched, then sighed. "Not that often I suppose. I avoid them when I can, but when the king puts on something this big, I'm expected to show my face." He frowned a little. "How did you get dragged in?"

            "Father got invited," I said absently. "Is the king here?" I couldn't hide the curiosity in my voice, but Murtagh shook his head.

            "Don't think so. I haven't seen him."

            Our conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by the approach of a noble wearing a bright blue jacket with so much lace falling from the sleeves I could barely make out his hands.

            "Murtagh Morzansson," he said, bowing a little as he halted in front of us. I barely contained my gasp. Never had I heard anyone utter Morzan's name so casually in any context. Murtagh didn't even blink, bowing in return.

            "Lord Kenric," he responded smoothly, "enjoying your evening?"

            "Certainly, a wonderful event," Kenric replied. I couldn't stop staring at his hair, which was so brightly white that it matched the lace on his jacket. "So generous of the king."

            Murtagh inclined his head in silent agreement.

            "I was hoping to catch you, actually," Kenric continued. "There are a few things I'd like to discuss, if you've got time later this week?" Only the slightest tilt of his head made it a question; his tone was full of expectation.

            "Of course. I will check when I'm free and get back to you."

            "Excellent," Kenric said, nodded to both of us one last time, and moved off.

            Murtagh shook his head as he watched the blue jacket retreating through the crowds.

            "He's got two mistresses," he said casually. "But he doesn't know they both know about the other."

            I snorted with laughter before I could stop myself. "Maybe they're too fascinated with his hair to care."

            Murtagh chuckled. "Possibly. I have no idea how he managed to get it that colour."

            "Paint?" I suggested innocently and we both had to hide our laughter.

            "But that man over there–" Murtagh nodded subtly to our left at a man with golden curls that fell to his shoulders and a velvety red jacket "–he's got three paramours, and they're all clueless."

            "Spreading gossip again, Tag?"

            I whirled, my hand jumping to my back, where the blade I never went without was concealed, though the new voice was full of light amusement. Murtagh had turned too, but relaxed as the newcomer joined us. He was about five years older than us, bordering on twenty, with inky black hair cropped almost as short as mine and an equally dark outfit to match.

            "Gideon," Murtagh greeted him. "I was starting to think you hadn't come. I'm sorry to hear about your father."

            Gideon snorted. "That makes one of us." His eyes fell on me, their light blue colour a sharp contrast to his dark hair. Murtagh, noticing his focus, turned to me.

            "Gideon, this is Toren Tornacsson. Toren, Gideon. His family's estate is just outside Uru'baen."

            "My estate now, Tag, since that grumpy old vulture finally flapped off for the last time." Gideon held out a hand to me and I shook it. "Tornacsson, eh? I've heard of him. Good fighter. You inherit any of his skill?"

            "A bit of it," I replied, unsure if I liked him or not.

            Murtagh snorted. "Enough to beat me several times a session. You should join us tomorrow, see for yourself," he offered, but Gideon shook his head.

            "Afraid I can't stay. I need to get back early. One of the mares is due to foal any day now, and I want to be there."

            Murtagh shrugged, though his mouth had turned down at the corners. "Fair enough. Next time."

            "Next time," Gideon promised, then his eyes snapped to something behind us and he gave a wicked grin. "But if you'll excuse me, I must go and talk to Baron Fredrick. He's got a stunning stallion that my father refused to even consider breeding from. I'd better start repairing the damage." With that, he was gone, slipping away through the crowd.

            I watched him go, slightly bemused. Murtagh grinned at the expression.

            "He takes a bit of getting used to," he admitted, "but he's a good guy. Lives for the politics. And horses. He's had plans for Fredrick's stallion since he was our age, but his father was a stubborn old git. Said the animal had skinny legs."

            I laughed. "Sounds like he's got a hard battle to repair that sort of comment."

            Murtagh shrugged. "If anyone can do it, it's Gideon," he said, looking away. "Oh good, here comes Lady Marissa. Hold your breath – she wears enough scent to choke a whole room." It was a struggle to keep my face straight as a haughty woman swept up to us, and I was very grateful I'd taken Murtagh's advice. Even after she left, the overwhelming smell of something floral remained, trying to choke us with its noxious fumes.

 

The rest of the evening passed much more enjoyably in Murtagh's company, listening to the snippets of gossip about everyone who passed: who was trying to form alliances, who was about to come into conflict, who was meeting in secret. Gideon returned to join the conversation several times throughout the evening, always slipping away when he spied another noble he needed to talk to.

            But for all the amusement, I could tell the event was wearing for Murtagh, and I could see why. I lost track of the number of times I heard Morzan's name, or someone tried to pull Murtagh a little deeper into their own little puddle of allies. He took it all with a smile that grew more and more strained but I was nearly snarling when I looked up and saw my father across the room. He held my gaze and I nodded, turning to Murtagh.

            "I've gotta go," I said, jerking my head back towards my father. Murtagh followed my gaze and his face smoothed into more genuine respect than I'd seen all evening as he nodded to my father.

            "Okay. Tomorrow morning?" he asked. I nodded, clapped him on the shoulder, and slipped away. At the doors, I looked back. Yet another noble had swooped in already and I allowed myself to imagine putting a knife in his back, freeing Murtagh for just a few more moments. Instead I turned and walked away. It was the only thing I could do.

 

\-------------------

 

The force of his mind on mine was like a battering ram, and I could feel my defences straining, beginning to crack under the constant pressure. I'd long since abandoned my attack, giving it up in favour of trying to keep Murtagh out of my mind. It was a familiar situation, the way almost all of our secret duels ended up. After five years, I'd not once managed to break through his iron-clad walls. Mine still crumbled with annoying regularity. But not today. Not today. Gritting my teeth, I focused even harder, keeping my walls up with the latest move my father had been drilling into me. I was constantly misplacing my heel. Over and over I imagined the movement in my mind until I could feel my foot twitching with the desire to _turn out_. I wondered how long it had taken him to perfect it.

            Like a pane of glass, my defences shattered, and then he was in me, part of me, so deep there was no divide between us. All the force he'd been exerting continued to blast through me until I didn't know what memories were from the previous day or a decade ago. The first time my father had placed a blade in my hand. My last outing on Nara, wind whipping through my hair as she galloped across the open plain. The first time I'd seen Murtagh smile, after he'd knocked me to the ground after a year and a half of training. A woman laughing. The shine of sunlight on steel.

            Then he was gone, and my mind was empty without him. Staggering with the sudden loss, I sat down hard, gasping as I tried to remember how to breathe.

            "I'm sorry. I... I didn't mean to." He was panting almost as hard as I was.

            Fighting to control my breathing, I shook my head, squinting in the sun as I looked up at him. He'd grown just as much as I'd predicted he would, and his face had lost the childish edges, but he still had the same dark hair, the same hard grey eyes.

            "It's ... okay," I huffed.

            "No," he snapped angrily, "it's not. I shouldn't have... I should have had better control. I'm _sorry._ "

            "Stop." I climbed shakily to my feet and gripped his shoulder. "It's fine. Accidents happen. I almost ran you through last week."

            "It's different," he insisted.

            "Not to me," I countered. "I trust you, brother, and I know you didn't mean to. It's fine."

            But he had stiffened, shaking my hand off him as he stepped away, his face full of anger.

            "Is that what you want? What you think?" he spat. "That we're _brothers_? You want to be in my position? To walk down every hallway and know everyone is looking at you, that they know exactly who you are and judge you for it?! Is that what you want? To have _Morzan_ for a father?"

            I took a step back before the unstoppable tide of his anger. "Murtagh—"

            "You don't have a clue! I wouldn't wish this life on anyone, and you dare to claim it!" He turned and ripped up his shirt, exposing the shiny scar that ran across his back. I'd seen it before, when an assassination attempt had put another scar across his side, but he'd refused to say what it was.  "This is what I got for being his son! This is all he ever gave me. Is this what you want?! To have the same? To be his son too?! You know nothing!" He stormed away.

            For a moment I stared after him in shock.

            "I didn't mean it like that," I confessed quietly. But there was nothing except empty space to hear me, and it had no reply to give.

 

\-------------------

 

The wind shifted a little, twisting through the trees, rustling the leaves as it passed. In utter silence I waited, listening to the creak of the bow inches away from my face. The small doe raised its head, large ears flicking. The arrow thrummed through the air, hitting her chest with a dull thud, and she fell to the ground, twitching. Cautiously, I straightened up and moved forward, knife ready in my hand, but she was dead before I got to her. Scowling, I looked behind me.

            "How in heavens did you make that shot?"

            Murtagh grinned lazily. It was an expression I never saw in the city, but out here in the wilderness, he was more relaxed. "Add it to the list of things you'll never know." He clapped me on the shoulder as he passed, and I shoved him in mock retaliation. Together we moved forwards, Murtagh reclaiming his arrow with a sharp jerk, examining the tip as I crouched down by the small animal's belly. For a second, I looked down at her delicate head and wide brown eyes. Then I plunged the blade into her, ripping the carcass open.

            "You want a hand?" he asked, but I shook my head as I dug my hand into her warmth, pulling out a handful of entrails and flinging them to the side.

            "No, I've got it."

            He hummed in wordless acceptance and moved away a little. As I worked, I glanced over at him. He wasn't watching me, but gazing off into the canopy, sitting on his heels as he considered the forest around us. I let him have his thoughts, continuing my grisly work in silence. When I'd finished, I hoisted the deer up off the ground. Only the size of a dog, she wasn't heavy, and I slung her over one shoulder with ease as I turned to my brother.

            "Hey."

            He didn't respond immediately, still gazing off into the trees.

            "It's so quiet," he said eventually.

            Raising my head, I had to agree. The silence of the trees, broken only by the faintest twittering of birds, was like another presence watching us. After another second, Murtagh pushed up to his feet with a sigh.

            "I can take it," he offered, gesturing to the doe over my shoulder. I just grinned at him, trudging off through the undergrowth, knowing that he was following me without having to look back.

            We walked in silence until the sound of rushing water reached our ears and it wasn't long until the trees faded, giving way to the banks of the Ramr. Taking a moment to admire the play of light over the water and get my bearings, I turned right, trudging downstream. Murtagh fell into step beside me, our legs moving in sync without either of us noticing. The sun was falling in the sky by the time we reached our campsite. Our hunt had taken us further than I'd realised. Setting down the doe, I knelt by the river, washing off the dried blood that had stuck to my fingers while Murtagh rekindled the fire.

 

As the night closed in, I lay down on my side, staring off into the dark forest. Murtagh flopped down beside me, our backs pressed close together. With a shiver, I wriggled a little under the blanket, curling my toes around each other.

            "Does it have to be so cold?" I griped, and Murtagh chuckled, the sound vibrating through our joined bodies. "I can't wait to get back to the city," I muttered to myself, imagining my bed, piled high with blankets, the remnants of the fire still warming the house.

            "I like it out here," Murtagh admitted quietly. "It's peaceful. No people."

            I poked him in the side.

            "Ow," he chuckled. "You know what I mean. No-one staring, talking behind their hands." He sighed. "No-one watching me."

            _Or trying to kill you_. I added. One of his food-tasters had fallen ill only a week before. Probably why my father had sent us out here. I knew Murtagh disliked the court and its nobles, avoiding them as much as possible, but the court never tired of him.

            "What would you do?" I asked him. "If you left."

            He let out a bitter laugh. "That's not going to happen."

            " _If?_ " I emphasised, and he fell silent.

            "I'd go to a place where no-one knew who I was," he said at last. "Somewhere no-one had heard of my father. Where people looked at me without seeing him."

            "You can be more than him," I said after a moment. He didn't respond.

            "Not here," he said at last, so quietly I almost missed it. Neither of us spoke again. Closing my eyes, I focused on the feeling of his back against mine. _Good night, brother_. I thought. I had never said the word aloud again, not after that first time, but I couldn't stop myself thinking of him that way. He was my brother. He always would be.

 

\-------------------

 

He was early, already waiting for me on the practice ground. I strode forwards, my sword spinning casually in my hand as I rounded him, the metal glinting in the light.

            "Happy birthday," I said. "Belated, I know, but better late than never. Wasn't sure what to get you, but then I thought, I could just let you win for once. Though dying from shock might not be such a great present." I came to a halt just in front of him, but he didn't look up. He didn't even seem to have heard me. He was staring straight down at his sword, twirling it idly, the point grinding a hole in the ground. I frowned at him.

            "What happened?"

            He opened his mouth, considered, then closed it again, still frowning down at the ground. I took two steps forward and placed my hand over his, halting his twirling fingers. Finally, he raised his eyes to mine.

            "What happened?" I repeated, my tone a little softer.

            "I had dinner with the king last night," he said eventually. I gaped at him.

            "You what?"

            "I had dinner with the king last night," he repeated, his voice a little firmer, but no louder. I stared at him. Something wasn't right here.

            "And?" I asked tightly.

            Murtagh's eyes were bright, almost feverish. "We talked," he began, "or rather, he talked, and... It was amazing. He has such ideas, Toren. Of what Alagaesia could be. _Should_ be, and..." He looked around, checking for eavesdroppers. "And I'm going to help him make it happen."

            I drew back, surprised. Murtagh had always distanced himself from the court, never getting involved with politics of any description. And now, after one evening, he'd allied himself firmly with the king? It felt wrong. But he seemed so excited, so enthused by the prospect, that I couldn't bring myself to question it. So I smiled, hoping the expression wasn't too strained.

            "Well I hope your head isn't too full of dreams to spar today," I said, tapping my sword against his and taking a step back. He gave a smile that was not entirely his own and launched himself forwards.

 

\-------------------

 

The knock on the door woke me suddenly. Blinking, I rolled over, staring across the room, wondering if I'd imagined the sound. But movement from my father's room told me I had not. With a stifled groan, I rolled out of bed, leaving the warmth reluctantly as I slipped out of my room, rounded the table and unlatched the door. The figure waiting was inside so fast I actually stumbled back a step. On instinct, I fell into a crouch, wishing I'd snagged a blade on my way over, before Murtagh threw back his hood. For an instant I relaxed, then I registered the expression on his face and tensed again immediately.

            "Murtagh, what happened?" I breathed.

            He was shaking, deathly pale, his eyes huge in his face. Movement behind me announced my father's arrival and he hurried forwards at once. I stepped back, my stomach twisting as he guided Murtagh to a chair and pushed him down into it, kneeling before him.

            "What is it? What's wrong? Has someone ... _tried_?"

            My heart roared in fury at the thought. I would never be able to stomach the thought of people lurking in the darkness, waiting for him to be alone...

            But Murtagh shook his head. Frowning, I moved closer.

            "Galbatorix," he whispered, and a shudder ran through his whole body.

            Father and I exchanged a glance. I'd told him about Murtagh's meeting with the king on his birthday, and how he'd been afterwards. This was different. He wasn't excited; he was terrified. In silence, we stared at Murtagh, waiting for more, but nothing came. He was still shaking. Striding across the room, I snagged a blanket from my bed and threw it around his shoulders. He flinched a little, then pulled it closer to him.

            "Murtagh," I called firmly, crouching beside my father to look up at him. His eyes snapped suddenly to mine.

            "I was so stupid," he moaned.

            "What happened?" I pressed him.

            My father pushed his knee against mine in silent warning, but it wasn't needed.

            Murtagh broke. "He was so angry... The Varden, you've heard what they've done?"

            We both nodded. Three brigades in the south, gone.

            "He... He wants me to..." His eyes closed and he took a deep breath. "He wants me to take some troops and destroy Cantos," he said it in one breath, as if the words would poison him if he held them for too long.  Opening his eyes again, his gaze flickered between me and my father. "He told me to kill them all, burn them at the stake, regardless of their guilt."

            We all stared at each other for a long second.

            "I can't. I won't. Please," Murtagh begged, "help me."

            My father and I moved at the same time, neither of us hesitating to reach out a hand and grasp one of his shoulders, grounding him, claiming him.

            "It's going to be okay," my father said. "We're going to get you out of here."

            Murtagh stared between us, the tiniest hint of hope shining out of his face.

            "Promise," I swore to him. His eyes closed and a single tear trickled down his face.

 

\-------------------

 

It was very early. I sat at the kitchen table in the pre-dawn light, watching the trickles of dust floating through the air. We'd stayed up late last night, reassuring Murtagh and planning into the darkest depth of the night. Eventually, Murtagh had left, going back up to the citadel in a slightly better state than he'd arrived, with firm instructions from my father to keep calm and pretend nothing was wrong. This morning, he would go and organise for a set of troops to be ready to leave within three days. He would be gone before then. We all would be.

            I had barely slept after he'd left, eventually giving up the attempt and instead preparing a pack in the pre-dawn light, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Everything was ready, though I doubted we would go before tomorrow. If the king was suspicious at all, it would be now. Some time, and hopefully good acting on Murtagh's behalf, should alleviate any doubts.

            My eyes wandered upwards, to the smiling face of my mother, staring down at me from the frame over the fireplace. What would she say about our decision to help Murtagh? Had she believed in the Empire? In the king? I didn't know. Gazing into her soft eyes, I couldn't help but hope that she would have been on our side. If she'd met him, she would have loved Murtagh too. Just as I loved him. Just as my father did. As if summoned by the thought, the door opened.

            "Up!" my father ordered as he hurried inside.

            I jumped to my feet, more than a little shocked, watching in silence as he scrabbled around the room, finally snatching up my pack from where I'd left it.

            "You're leaving, now," he panted, shoving the pack into my arms and pressing a purse into my hands.

            "What?" I gasped, shrugging the pack up onto my shoulders, "We're going now?"

            "You," he said, finally stopping and looking me full in the eye. "You are going now."

            I stared at him and he sighed.

            "Murtagh isn't just going to be allowed to walk out the gates, Toren. You leave now, then at least you're away. We'll catch up with you outside the city. Go east, get into the Spine."

            "The Spine?" I repeated. "Half the army disappeared in those mountains!"

            "Have I taught you nothing?" My father growled, slapping his hand on the sword at my side. "Or don't you want to help Murtagh anymore?"

            I snarled back at him silently. "Fine. The Spine. What then?"

            "Go north, to Lake Flam. Stay in the mountains, but go to the shore closest to the trees every evening, at sundown. We'll meet you there. Wait for a week." He held my gaze. "One week only. If we're not there by then..." I swallowed. "Go north again, wait for us where the Anora River ends. Okay?" Reviewing a map in my head, I nodded but caught his arm as he tried to push me towards the door.

            "Why don't you two go first? I'll travel faster, just me on my own, I could catch up with you."

            My father smiled and raised a hand to my shoulder.

            "No. If they catch us trying to leave and you're still in the city, you'd never get out. Go now, and then at least one of my sons will be safe." For a moment there was silence as we stared at each other, then I hugged him, hard.

            "Keep him safe," I muttered, and felt his arms tighten around me.

            "I will," he promised, and I slipped out the door into the cool dawn light.

 

\-------------------

 

The pouch of coins was heavy in my pocket as I walked down the street towards the stable, careful to keep my steps casual. I was sweating, though the air was still cold. It wasn't very far to go to the warm comfort of the stables, full of the smells and sounds of horses.

            "Hey, Toren, you're here early." Aidan poked his head out of a stall further along and grinned at me.

            "Hey," I said, trying to sound unconcerned. If I gave the game away now, I would spoil everything for my father. And Murtagh. Hurrying down the barn I flicked open Nara's stall and clicked my tongue. She raised her head, nickering in recognition before stepping delicately out and following me down the aisle.

            "Is there anything that animal _wouldn't_ do for you?" Aidan asked, sounding exasperated. I grinned at him as I passed.

            "Probably not." Forcing myself to take a breath, I slipped the pack off my shoulders, resting it against the wall as I claimed a brush and began to swipe gently over Nara's dark coat. My sword I left hanging at my side. Nara nibbled on my sleeve as I worked, twisting her neck round to follow my progress along her back. I smiled, relaxing a little. I could do this. It was just like any other day. Aidan's head had retreated, and I let out a steady breath as I moved round to the other side and continued brushing. When the bay coat was gleaming, I replaced the brush and claimed Nara's saddle from its hook, placing it gently on her back as she stood, solid and patient as a rock.  The bridle went on just as easily. She lowered her gentle head to receive the bit without a fuss, blowing gently onto my hands. Smiling, I did up the last buckle, and reclaimed my pack, shrugging it onto my back before taking up the reins. Two hops on the spot and I swung myself up onto her back, rearranging my sword slightly so it wouldn't hit her as we moved. Tossing her head, she turned gracefully towards the exit. We were so close.

            "How long are you gonna be gone this time?" Aidan stepped out of a stall just as we went past.

            "A couple of weeks, I think," I said with a grimace, "but you know Father — if I'm gone for a month, don't be too surprised."

            Aidan laughed as I nudged Nara with my heels and she stepped out eagerly. The sunlight hit us like a hammer ringing on the anvil of freedom. Down the single street, a quick nod to the guards as we passed through the gates, and I breathed the free air.

 

As we moved out towards the larger estates, I clicked my tongue, asking Nara for a little more haste. She lengthened her stride at once, striding eagerly down the road as if she was just as desperate to be gone as I was. At the crest of a hill, I drew her back to a halt and turned for one last look back at the city. For a moment, I imagined Murtagh looking out a window, waiting to join me in freedom.

            "Not long my brother," I murmured, "not long. I promise." Turning away, I urged Nara on. She sprang forwards, and we flew away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to veagleeyev (ff.n) and SaviourUnleased (ff.n) for beta-ing this for me. I have made changes and additions since then, so any mistakes are mine!!  
> Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought!! :)


	2. Burned

_Cold_. Why was it so cold? Even huddled close to the fire, with a blanket draped around my shoulders, I was still shivering. My feet were the worst. Two of the toes on my left foot had gone numb and the rest were quickly following. Every day that I moved further north the temperature dropped even further. With a sigh I shifted slightly, glancing up and scanning the trees, which did at least help break the wind. I'd never been so far north before. I wasn't even sure my father had either. He'd been to Gil'ead on multiple occasions, but I was far past that now, hopefully getting closer to Ceunon.

            Just as he'd instructed, I'd waited for a week at Lake Flam. Every evening I had gone down to the shore and waited until the sun sank below the horizon, and then stayed a long time afterwards. There had been plenty of movement, various animals coming to drink in the fading light, but no people, no pair of familiar figures approaching me. So I'd packed up and moved on again, trying to unknot my stomach as I walked, day or night, trekking my way further up the Spine.

            Two nights ago I'd spotted the silhouette of Utgard on my right, causing a flare of triumph and thrill of fear in my stomach. Soon I would have to push further east, ready to round the top of Palancar Valley and descend towards the Anora river, the second meeting point. _If they were there_. I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thought. Why hadn't they met me at the lake? What had gone wrong?

            A twig snapped and my head jerked up at once, my hand going to the blade that was never out of reach. Cold forgotten, I rose silently to my feet, the blanket falling to the ground as I turned slowly on the spot, my ears twitching. These mountains made me uneasy. I couldn't put all of the stories I'd heard about them from my mind. It didn't help I knew more than half of them were true.

            Half the Imperial Army—well-trained soldiers—had vanished in this range.

            Men with no known origin had emerged from their depths, gibbering mad, raving about monsters.

            After several long minutes of tense waiting, I relaxed a little. It must have just been an animal, or the fire crackling, or just my imagination. I made one last sweep of the trees before turning back to the fire. I was halfway back to the ground when I heard a rustle of leaves from the right. I didn't hesitate. My sword hissed as I ripped it from its sheath, discarding the leather as I threw myself to the right, not caring how much noise I made as I danced around a tree to put my back to the bark as I scanned the dark forest. Nothing moved. Very, very slowly, I crouched down, my free hand searching the ground until my fingers found a stone. My muscles protested lightly as I stood again, drew my arm back and flicked it forwards, sending the stone clattering through the trees. Nothing. No innocent animals startled from their hiding places. The tremble in my fingers had nothing to do with cold now.

            The shadows on the ground had moved when I finally lowered my sword and retreated, glancing around every step of the way. Roughly, I rolled up my blanket and stuffed it into my pack, never letting go of the hilt of my sword as I stamped out the last few embers of the dying fire. With one last suspicious glance into the forest, I shouldered my pack and slipped away through the trees.

 

If I hadn't been so on edge, more focused on the forest behind me than the ground under my feet, I never would have been so careless. One hand on the trunk of a tree, I was looking over my shoulder when the ground disappeared from under my feet. With an undignified yelp, I went tumbling down a slope, knocking my elbow on a tree root. When I finally rolled to a stop, it was with a groan and to the sound of many rustling leaves and light foot-falls. Looking up I saw a herd of deer bounding off across the clearing, disappearing into the trees on the other side of the slight dip in the landscape where they'd been resting. Cursing, I pushed myself to my feet, wincing at the ache in my arm. But as the noises of the deer faded, I heard another sound I recognised; the creak of a bow. I turned so fast I nearly fell over again, my sword flashing in the moonlight as I searched wildly for the source. It wasn't hard to find. The boy, for he looked at least two years younger than me, was eyeing me warily, but his bow was relaxed in his grip. His hair was shining like dark silver in the moonlight, swept back from his face, which held an expression of mixed shock and amusement. It seemed I had just messed up his hunt, if the arrow nocked to his bow was any indication. Slowly, I lowered my sword point a little and took a step backwards, but as my foot touched the ground, an explosion tore the fabric of the world apart.

            Thrown backwards, I sailed through the air as a flash of bright green light blinded me. Next second, I'd slammed hard into the ground. My ears were ringing, my leg was burning and stars of light danced across my vision. It was several seconds before I could sit up. The world spun horribly as I blinked, trying to clear the spots in front of my eyes. They faded slowly, and the clearing came back into focus. The first thing I saw was the boy. He too had been thrown backwards, but was on his feet again already, staring at the place where I had been standing. I turned my gaze down to the same point and stared.

            The ground was blackened and scorched, the blast marks stretching all the way out to the trees and in the very centre, sat a perfect blue stone. I gazed at it, entranced by the way the moonlight glistened on the smooth surface.  I had a strange urge to move forward and run my hands over it, to pick it up and cradle it close. Then I shook my head, pushing the thought away. _No_. Whatever that stone was, it hadn't arrived here by any normal means. Which meant... _magic_. I didn't want to be anywhere near it. Or here.

            Pushing myself to my feet, I swayed as my ears continued ringing. Snatching my sword from where it lay several feet away, I turned and sprinted away into the trees, ignoring the ache in my arm and the searing pain in my leg. If he had any sense, the boy would be running in the other direction as well. I wouldn't have touched that stone if it held the potential to fix every injustice in the world.

 

It took a while for the adrenaline to wear off. My vision had returned to normal, but I still couldn't hear anything and my leg was throbbing painfully. Panting a little, I lurched sideways as I came to a halt, catching myself on a tree before lowering myself to the ground. Every second my heart rate slowed, the pain built up even more. Gritting my teeth, dreading what I was going to see, I looked down.

            All down the side of my left calf, half hidden by the tattered remains of my trousers, a large swath of my skin had gone shiny and white. The moonlight reflected off the area, making it shimmer in a bluish light. Around it, the skin was red and puckered, like a burn, the skin peeling away. Gently, I brushed my fingers across the wound. The white skin was firm and hard and didn't actually hurt, but the redness around it throbbed under my fingers and I had to bite my tongue to hold in a gasp.

            Drawing my hand back, I considered for a moment. I wasn't nearly as far away from that stone as I wanted to be, but perhaps I could rest for just a moment. Closing my eyes, I turned my head away, resting it on the tree trunk as I tried to calm my breathing. It wasn't easy, with flickers of pain running through my leg every few seconds. The whole area felt odd. Wrong. As if someone else was running their hands over my skin. Twice I actually opened my eyes to check there was nothing touching the area. But there never was.

After a few minutes, the sensations had faded and I forced myself back to my feet, pushing on through the trees, limping as fire shot through my left calf with every step. But I kept going until dawn broke in the east, turning the world golden. Only then did I allowed myself to sink to the ground. Too tired to even start a fire, I just curled up against a tree and pretended it was my brother's warm back that was pressed against mine, rather than rough bark. It helped a little, and I drifted into a light sleep, stirring every few minutes as tremors of pain ran through my leg.

 

The sun was low in the sky when I woke properly, my side in knots from the cold ground, my knees cracking as I stood up, gingerly testing my left leg. The muscles screamed as they tensed, pulling on the burn. Almost more off-putting was the fact that I still couldn't hear out of my left ear. Gritting my teeth, I hobbled on anyway, putting the setting sun on my left, determined to cover some more ground. Every few seconds my head automatically turned to the left, trying to compensate for the loss of my hearing. I hoped it wasn't permanent; I hated the inequality. My leg was soon freezing, the skin exposed to the chill air where the magic had burned straight through my trousers. The combination of cold and pain was too much.

            Before the last light faded I slowed to a halt, panting a little, grimacing as I tried to take some of the weight off my injured leg. It didn't help much. Closing my eyes, I stood very still and listened. I'd been hearing water on and off all day, but hadn't been able to pinpoint a source.

            A squirrel chattered loudly from a nearby tree and I jumped, but there was still no sound of water. With a sigh I turned, letting my good ear face the other way, and then I heard it: the faintest burble of liquid.

            Heartened, I moved on again. My limp became more pronounced with every step, but I didn't slow my pace, pushing on until I stumbled onto a small stream winding its way through the trees. I sank to the ground beside it, ignoring the sharp rocks as I stretched my leg out across the stream, bracing my foot on a rock on the other side. Pulling my trouser leg up over my knee, I grimaced at the extent of the wound. It was even bigger than I'd first thought, a swath of menacing darkness in the half-light of dusk. Rummaging through my pack, I pulled out my water-skin and upended it over the redness, letting out a hiss of pain as the cool liquid spilled over my puckered skin. With a slightly trembling hand, I lowered the soft hide into the stream and refilled it. The second washing was almost worse than the first one, knowing what to expect I tensed before the water had even hit my leg.

            Unable to face a third one, I refilled the skin for myself, taking a quick drink before crawling backwards away from the water. Once the rocky ground had given way to softer earth, I set my sights on a place where a huge tree trunk split into two only feet from the ground, forming a solid, domed barrier at the base, moving with grim determination until its shadow slid over me. I pulled out a blanket and flicked it over myself, grimacing as the coarse fabric came into contact with the burn, and closed my eyes. I would have to try and wash it again tomorrow. And hunt as well. My cache of food was growing smaller by the day.

            Wriggling a little on the hard ground, I tried to sleep, but the thoughts just kept on coming. Would I even be able to hunt on this leg? Why was the burn two different shades? Where were my father and Murtagh? What could have happened for them to not have met me at Lake Flam? Who had sent that stone here? Had it been a coincidence that it had arrived when and where it had? Round and round my mind ran and the moon was halfway into the sky before I finally fell asleep.

 

The sun had fully risen and was shining straight onto my face when I woke the next morning. Flinching at the sudden light, I turned my head away, blinking hard as I yawned, my jaw cracking. Snapping my fingers by my left ear, I was dejected to hear nothing but the echo on my right. Rolling my blanket up tightly, I pushed it into my pack, took a breath, then looked down at my leg. For a second, all I could do was stare. I'd never looked at it properly in daylight before. I'd thought the odd bluish hue had come from the moonlight reflecting off the white, but I'd been wrong. The central part of the burn was coloured, a smooth swathe of both white _and_ blue, blended and swirled together. Unable to stop myself, I reached out, tracing the colours with my fingers. There was no pain, just the barest registering of the pressure from my fingertips.

            Sitting back against the tree trunk I stared down at my leg for a long time. Every so often I thought that I should start moving, but could never quite bring myself to do so. I just sat there. It took almost an hour for me to be sure of what I was seeing, if I hadn't been looking for so long, I never would have noticed; the colours were moving. Blue and white swirled together, merged, and parted again in a dance of glacial slowness. Bile rose from my stomach and my throat clenched. What had happened to me?

            Eventually, I managed to look away, throwing myself to my feet and shoving down my pant leg. The burned fabric fluttered as I strode away, ignoring every sting of pain as I headed east. I'd lost my bearings in my painful night-time wanderings. Hopefully, I would be able to find the edge of Palancar Valley and get back on track from there.

            The movement helped, the constant pull of muscle as I strode through the forest clearing my numb mind. There was nothing more I could do about the burn, whatever it was, so I tried to put it out of my mind. The sun had just peaked when I saw brightness ahead and was soon looking out over an open space.

            The valley was wide and flat, dotted with tiny farm buildings the size of toys from my high vantage point. Squinting, I could just about pick out minuscule forms of animals and people here and there. Further away, off to the right, was a bigger collection of stout logs buildings, some with thatched roofs, some with shingle, the sunlight reflecting off the tiles and gilding the golden straw. Carvahall. A small village, very little contact with the outside world, apart from some traders that went through a couple of times each year.

            Staring down at the little people, I wondered what their lives were like. Books could only say so much, and on a place this remote, there wasn't much information anyway, even to those who could be bothered to read it. But I was still curious. What did they eat each day? What crops were growing in those fields? I'd lived all my life in and around the capital, far to the south, apart from the occasional excursion to the nearby cities with my father, or the even rarer hunting trips with Murtagh. I had no idea what life was to these folk. I wondered idly about the boy I'd seen hunting. Maybe he lived down on one of those farms, was making his way back there even now.

            Inevitably my thoughts turned from him to the stone and soured at once. I hoped he hadn't been stupid enough to bring it back with him. It didn't make much difference to me now, anyway. Turning away, I ducked further back into the trees as I kept heading north. The head of the valley wasn't that far away. Hopefully, I would be able to get there before sundown. My calf twinged on every step, but I ignored it. Keeping my gaze firmly ahead and my steps deliberately even, I walked on.

 

I just about made it to the end of the valley when the sun sank below the trees. A little way ahead, I could see a break in the foliage winding its way up the side of the valley, forming a trail from the base up to the peaks, where a crashing waterfall tumbled over a rocky ledge. The noise, even from where I stood, was phenomenal. I slipped a little further into the undergrowth, just in case any villagers made the climb, before settling down for the night. My food supplies were now seriously low. I would have to hunt tomorrow. Maybe make a camp somewhere around the waterfall and then strike out in search of food. For all the unease these woods filled me with, they were undeniably alive. Not a single day had passed when I hadn't seen or heard evidence of animals, which was lucky. On the plains outside Uru'baen, I could name every plant I came across and identify those that were safe to eat in a heartbeat. My father had made sure of that. Here, every leaf was foreign. Closing my eyes, I adjusted my blanket before returning my hand to the blade beside me. And I slept.

 

The first thing I discovered the next morning was that my hearing was returning. It was wondrous to be able to hear on both sides again, though my left ear still felt a little muffled. Encouraged, I struck out at once, never even glancing at my leg as I covered the remaining ground to the waterfall in less than an hour. A little way back from the western bank of the lake behind the crashing falls, I made a camp, stashing my pack and pulling out my bow. It was a tiny thing, recurved to increase the power, though still with a pitiful range compared to a true longbow. It was enough to hunt with, though, and far easier to conceal.

 

All things considered, it was a good enough hunt. My first shot, at a twitchy eared rabbit, missed by nearly a foot, something I was exceptionally glad Murtagh hadn't seen. But the next two fell to my arrows, and I carried them back to the falls, throwing the entrails casually off the cliff before skewering the animals and cooking them. There was a chilly wind sweeping over the precipice, but further back it was more sheltered, and the sun warmed the rocks quickly.

            Sitting in silence, I stared across the water, considering the blue depths. It would be cold, but I hadn't been properly clean for a month. Wrapping the leftover rabbit carefully, I tucked my pack away, slipped off my shoes, and waded out into the lake. The water was icy, but after a second of agony, the chill numbed my burn and I let out a sigh of relief. Creeping further forwards, my toes searching the slick rocks before every step, I walked out until the water was lapping around my waist before coming to a stop. In one swift movement, I pulled my tunic over my head, shivering a little as the chilly air caressed my back. Dunking the fabric under the water, I washed it as best I could before sloshing back to the bank and flinging it over a rock to dry.

            Returning to the water, I watched the waves from my movement fade away, looking straight down into my own reflection shimmering in the mirrored surface of the lake. Mouse-brown hair, growing out to just brush the tops of my ears; a hard square face, my father's jaw echoed in my features; two sharp blue eyes, always watching. I took a deep breath, and sank below the water, both myself and my reflection vanishing, leaving nothing more than a lake in the mountains with a single ripple on the surface.

 

As the sun sank that evening, I watched my little fire throw dancing shadows over the ground. Sitting against a tree, I was examining the damage to my trouser leg. I'd changed into my spare pair, mainly to keep my calf warm, but it also made the assessment easier. The fabric was scorched and frayed, with holes scattered throughout the material. I could take it all off, make the leg shorter... but that wouldn't be much use in these sorts of temperatures, and it would leave my burn exposed. With any luck, it wouldn't scar too much, and it couldn't possibly be anywhere near as bad as Murtagh's back, but the idea still put me on edge. It felt like a secret. As if my body knew what I was thinking, my leg shivered, the irritatingly common sensation of something brushing across it setting my teeth on edge once again. But this time, it didn't fade. Instead, the pressure built up until I jerked up the undamaged leg of my spare pair of trousers, just to check that there wasn't an insect crawling up my leg.

It wasn't an insect. There was a hand on my leg. Or rather, the silhouette of one. The perfect shape of five fingers and a palm, as if drawn in blue paint over the burn. I let out a horrified yelp, scrambling backwards through the dirt, stretching my leg out as far away from myself as possible, as if the hand might erupt up out of my limb. It didn't, merely remained embossed on my skin for a moment before the colour faded, the blue dissipating back out through the white, spiralling innocently around as the pressure lessened, then disappeared altogether. My breathing took a lot longer to settle. What in heaven had happened to me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Many thanks to my betas for this chapter; Harvester of Dreams, onoheiwa and WritingWalter (all from ff.n), who helped me make this chapter legible.


	3. Almost a Secret

The next two weeks were not good. The red part of my burn blistered and cracked, creating a seam of pure pain up the side of my knee. Every movement of the joint was agony, ripping the skin apart again. I tried walking for one day on it, covered three miles, and then gave up. Hunkering down, I made a camp, set two very poor snares and collapsed.  
            Every day I would wake and think about the meeting point, close enough to touch but still so far away. I would think about moving on again, but the short walk to check my snares was enough to dissuade me from that idea, so I spent my time sitting close to the fire, staring at the swirling colours of my burn, and worrying. I worried a lot, about a lot of things. I worried about my burn, about the magic that had caused it, about the stone it had transported. I worried about my father and Murtagh, why they hadn't met me, where they were now. I worried about my dwindling food supply and the injury that prevented me from hunting. I worried about the weather, and with good reason, for just over a week after making my camp, it was hit with a blizzard. I'd been half expecting it, watching the clouds gather for several days. I made the best preparations I could, hobbling around as I gathered as much wood as I could carry, leaning the leafiest branches up against a network of sticks around a tree to create a better shelter, stacking the rest for precious fuel. The snow came down lightly at first, just a couple of dancing flakes one morning, but by midday I couldn't see the sun through the angrily swirling flakes. Cold beyond belief, I huddled in my makeshift shelter and watched the snow fall with hopeless eyes.  
            Other than short excursions to fetch more water and check on my snares, which remained stubbornly empty, I stayed in the shelter for seven days. Though I was permanently bored and cold, the lack of movement did do one good thing; my burn was able to heal. The crack over my knee knitted slowly back together, leaving a line of scabs which remained stiff and painful for a while longer, but the redness faded and the blisters burst and fell away, leaving my skin only slightly discoloured and puckered.  
            The central patch of white and blue did not heal. It didn't fade, diminish, or change in any way, the colours dancing stubbornly along my leg. My hearing was fine again, but even my pair of fully functioning ears couldn't distract me from the marking that was far from natural. I spent many hours staring at it, watching the blue meandering across the white surface, sometimes collecting in a single point, combined with a light pressure drifting over the area. I learned to ignore it.

 

Only one good thing happened during the seven days when the snow fell. One insanely lucky thing that probably saved my life. I was just turning away from the stream where I'd been collecting water, careful not to strain my leg, when I saw a flash of brown through the trees. For a moment, I stared, my hand drifting to my sword, but the splash of colour remained perfectly stationary. It was probably a patch of earth, scraped free from snow. Or so I tried to tell myself. But I moved closer anyway.  
            It wasn't a patch of earth. It was a deer. A large doe, far larger than the ones I'd encountered on the plains around Uru'baen, lying stiffly on the ground, her brown fur slowly disappearing beneath the snow that drifted down to settle on her flank. Her eye was wide open, staring up at the sky without seeing it. Three of her legs were curled close to her body, but one, the left foreleg, was extended out, lying at an angle. For a couple of seconds, I just stared at her. Then I glanced around. Nothing was moving, apart from the swirling, tumbling snowflakes; the white landscape was smooth and still. Carefully, I stepped forwards, the snow crunching under my feet. Next to the body, I crouched down, my eyes still up and scanning the clearing as I reached out and laid a cautious hand on her side. Her fur was icy and wet under my fingers, but when I shifted my hand down to just between her front legs, I could still feel a hint of warmth deep within her thick coat. She was dead, but only very recently. I spun slowly on the spot, my eyes raking the trees around us. Was it a trap? Was someone watching me? Or was the meat poisoned? My stomach growled at me. It didn't care if the first bite killed me. I would be out of food by that evening, with my leg still too stiff to go on an effective hunt. I had no other choice.  
            The animal was too big to take back to my camp so I butchered her right there in the snow, working as fast as I could, trying to keep my fingers warm. I buried the entrails, and packed pockets of meat under the snow to keep it cold while I carried as much as I could manage back to my camp. The rest of the morning was spent carting the meat across the short distance that felt longer with each pass. I tried not to wear a path in the snow, but by the last trip my legs were aching and my knee seared with each step. The snow would fill in my tracks quickly enough anyway. The afternoon I spent building up my fire and cooking pieces of meat over it, eating them while they were still hot, not caring about the grease and juices running down my chin. The hot food was too good in my stomach, which had been long neglected in the name of rationing.

 

It amazed me how much simple pleasure I felt at just being able to walk without wincing, to make the short trek to the cliff top without flinching on every other step. The snow had stopped falling at last, leaving the ground blanketed in white. Looking down over the edge of the cliffs, to where the water foamed and crashed so far below me, the thrill of fear and excitement was undeniable. I was standing on the edge of the world.  
            The evening sun was shining down, making the water glisten as it wound its lazy way along the valley floor, skirting round fields and farms, and a set of tents that hadn't been there two weeks ago. Frowning, I narrowed my gaze, trying to make out the small shapes. They must be people passing through, bringing trade goods... and news. My heart faltered a little. The odds of them knowing anything were so tiny, but I couldn't help the faint spark of hope. If something had gone wrong, maybe news had spread and just maybe, stories would be told about it from within those tents. It took me less than a second to make up my mind. Tomorrow, I would descend to the valley floor, and try to eavesdrop as much as possible. It was a risk, but a small one, and one I was willing to take. One more day wouldn't make much of a difference. I would leave afterwards, but the chance of hearing my father's name was too much to pass up.  
            Turning away, I jogged across the rocky shore, leaping between snow-strewn boulders, pushing myself, testing... other than the occasional residual twinge, my leg put up no protest at all. It was with a determined grin that I slept that night.

 

The next morning dawned bright and cold, but without any new snow. I was just starting the half-mile descent towards the ground when the sun rose, throwing light across the pale blue sky, though the valley remained in shadow. The narrow track was rocky and meandering as it wound down the side of the mountain and the remaining snow didn't improve the footing, so I slid down further than I walked, but the result was the same; I reached the bottom of the valley.  
            Following the shore of the river, I broke into a comfortable jog, revealing in the freedom of the movement, though I was careful to always keep my eyes peeled for people. In deference to the small village, I'd left my sword stashed carefully in the mountains, but I missed the familiar weight of it, despite the two knives I was carrying. Being without it made me nervous.

 

It was a lot further than I realised from the foot of the mountains to Carvahall. As I grew closer, honing in on the columns of smoke rising from chimneys, I joined the main road, nothing more than a wide smooth track, broken by other footsteps and ruts from wagon wheels. There was no-one else in sight, but each time I passed a farm I couldn't help ducking my head a little, though it wasn't until the actual outskirts of the village that I encountered people.  
            It was odd to be around company again. After so long on my own, the sight and sounds of other life made me flinch a little. I put on a good face, smiling and nodding amicably to anyone who passed. Hopefully the villagers would assume I was one of the traders, and the traders would assume I was a villager. I slipped carefully among the buildings, my ears trained to every conversation I passed, checking every face for signs of unwanted attention. It was easy to find the main street, the snow had been pounded flat into a treacherous, compressed sheet by the crowd thronging round a line of brightly coloured tents and booths. The rich smell of roasted hazelnuts permeated the air and made my stomach twitch, despite having eaten properly the day before. I was sick of meat, but my careful supply of coins, the last gift my father had given me, supplemented by the funds I'd gotten for selling Nara, would not be squandered. With a regretful air I turned away, slipping quietly through the crowds. Children raced past, shrieking with excitement as their parents haggled at the booths. My eye was caught by a selection of knives, mostly plain and simple, but the shiny metal was still a point of comfort to me, a familiarity in this strange world.  
            The traders selling their wares weren't nearly as loose-lipped as I'd hoped. Their eyes were hard, and almost all of them carried swords, making me miss mine all the more sharply. Pausing beside a booth of various cloths, I glanced back over my shoulder, and a face caught my eye. Frowning, I turned on the spot, staring at the place where the boy had been only seconds before. A moment later I caught sight of him again, hurrying in my direction, following an older man with greying hair, probably his father. The boy frowned a little as he glanced off to the side and I finally recognised him. At once I darted sideways, slipping between two buildings and pressing my back against the wall, breathing fast. It was the boy I'd seen in the mountains, who'd been hunting when the stone had appeared. I waited, watching the street outside until I saw the pair hurry past, the boy's brown hair, only a few shades darker than my own, swinging with his hasty strides. As they passed my hiding place, my leg twitched a little, and I felt an irrational urge to step out and follow them, to get closer. Irritated, I pushed it away, but couldn't stop my eyes following them further down the street.  
            "Damm it," I hissed, then slipped out, and began to follow. I kept my distance, lounging in the background as the pair paused beside a trader, and struck up a conversation. I watched from several booths away, turning hastily away as the boy glanced round. I wasn't sure if he'd recognise me or not, but I wasn't going to take the chance. After a minute or so, the trader packed up his wares and hurried out from his booth, leading the pair along the road. I darted sideways to a neighbouring street and sped up, keeping my path parallel to theirs as they moved away from the crowds, then stepped out into the field where all the tents were pitched. I waited, leaning nonchalantly against the corner of a building until they'd all entered a red tent and closed the flap behind them. With a quick glance in each direction, I sprinted across the gap, moving on light feet as I got closer, crouching down beside the tent and listening hard. A slight thud reached my ears.  
            "May I?" A voice reached my ears, not that of a boy, but which of the two men, I wasn't sure. There was a slight pause, then I had to bite my tongue to prevent myself yelping. Rolling sideways, I yanked up my trouser leg to stare at the hand print in blue on the side of my calf. I could feel it, as clearly as if it was my own hand on my skin. _Of all the times for it to start acting up..._ Gritting my teeth, I moved back towards the tent, ignoring my leg as I strained my ears. There was no sound at all, apart from the slight tinkle that I recognised as metal. My leg twitched again, then went cold. Scowling, I jerked my trouser leg down over it, but the chill persisted for a few more seconds. I heard more thudding and chiming of metal, then a slightly duller thud, like wood striking pottery. This time, I really did gasp, for the moment I heard the sound within the tent, I felt a sharp rap on my own leg.  
            My whole body went cold. As quickly and quietly as I could, I scraped away a patch of snow from the base of the tent and threw myself down. The freezing ground seared my skin, but I ignored it, pressing my face to the ground as I ever so carefully lifted the edge of the fabric. Inside the tent, the three men sat around a small table, and lying on it, was a familiar blue stone.  
            I nearly cursed aloud. The stupid, foolish, _idiotic_ boy. He'd brought it back with him, like a brainless magpie, unable to resist the shiny treasure. Biting my tongue, I watched as the trader drew the point of a tiny clear stone over the blue surface. And at the exact same moment, I _felt_ a sharp point run up my calf. Very slowly, I released the fabric of the tent and sat upright. As if in a trance, I moved the displaced snow back into place. The shaking in my shoulders and back had nothing to do with my cold, damp clothing.  
            "Do you know what this is worth?" The same voice spoke again from within the tent.  
            "No," a new one admitted. Half of me wanted to leave, to run and never look back, to run so far that I would never see or think of that blue stone again. But the other half was so numb with shock, that all it wanted to do was sit there. And so I waited, listening without a trace of my previous curiosity.  
            "Unfortunately, neither do I," the first voice continued. "But I can tell you this much: the white veins are the same material as the blue that surrounds them, only a different colour, though what that material might be, I had no idea. It's harder than any rock I've ever seen, harder than diamond, and shaped with tools I've never encountered — or magic. And it's hollow."  
            "What?"  
            "Did you ever hear a rock sound like this?" I grabbed my calf at once, but it made no difference. I felt the impact as I heard a pure shimmering note fill the end, then fade away far too slowly. "You will find no blemishes or marks where the dagger struck. I doubt anything I did would harm this stone, even if I dropped an anvil atop it."  
            "But what's it worth?" a new voice blurted out, and this had the slightly higher pitch of a boy, rather than a man.  
            "I can't tell you that," the first man, the trader, replied. "I'm sure there are people who would buy it, but they aren't in Carvahall. You'd have to go to the southern cities to find a buyer for a curiosity like this." There was a pause.  
            "Will you buy it?" the second voice, the boy's father, asked.  
            "It's not worth the risk," the trader replied quickly. "I can't be certain of finding a buyer and even if I did, you wouldn't get the money until next year. No, you'll have to find someone else to trade it for. But I will admit to my own curiosity... why did you want to talk in private?"  
            "I found it in the Spine," the boy answered after a moment's hesitation. "Folks around here don't like that. There's a lot of stories about those mountains." Under the pressure of my own hands, I felt another touch on my leg, and was sure the boy had reclaimed the stone from the trader.  
            "Do you know why my fellow merchants and I were late this year?" the trader asked. My head jerked up, my numbness slipping. News... real news. "Our wanderings have been dogged with misfortune this year. Chaos rules Alagaesia. We were struck, repeatedly, by illnesses, attacks, and the blackest luck I've ever known. The kings has been sending more soldiers to the borders to counter the Varden's increased attacks – men who are sorely needed in other parts to combat Urgals. The brutes seem to be migrating southeast, towards the Hadarac Desert, though no one knows why. It's not such a problem itself, but they're passing through populated areas, on roads and near cities. And..." he paused, "there are reports of a Shade, though they're unconfirmed." My stomach dropped. I could confirm _those_ stories well enough. There had been enough rumours in the capital in the weeks before my departure to make me certain of his existence.  
            "Why haven't we heard of this?" the boy cried.  
            _Because you're nothing but a farm boy._ I thought grimly. _You're never going to change the world, just watch it go by. Why would anyone come running to you with the news?_ I'd heard enough. Pushing to my feet, I slipped away from the tent in a crouch, making my way back towards the river. I had no desire to return to the town again. Not after what I'd just seen... and felt. I needed space to think, to consider, to try and understand...

 

I barely noticed where I was putting my feet as I trudged slowly along the path winding higher up into the mountains. Twice I slipped, grabbing at branches without feeling them tear my hands, my eyes glazed and unfocused. It was dark by the time I'd reached the top, and I stumbled my way through the trees in a daze, finally coming on my campsite through luck more than my own direction. Without even lighting a fire, I crawled inside my shelter, tugged a blanket over me, pulled my sword close and closed my eyes. I didn't sleep for a long time.

 

Bleary eyed and distinctly un-rested, I packed up my camp the next morning, filling my pack with the rest of the deer meat, scuffing away my fire pit and dismantling my shelter before the sun had truly risen. Facing the rising orb, I began to walk. The ground quickly became rougher and steeper. On my way north I'd been able, for the most part, to pass between the mountains, only occasionally having to ascend higher to follow my path. Now I went up and down valleys and cliffs, moving across the mountains, rather than through them. The physical exertion was welcome, despite the occasional twinge in my knee when I stretched a little bit too far, but it wasn't quite enough to occupy the whole of my mind.  
            Last night had given me no new answers, despite the hours lying awake in the dark, one hand pressed to my calf. My mind continued to churn over the same questions as I trekked onwards. The most prominent one, what in all the heavens was that stone? And what had it done to my leg? One thing I was totally sure of; that boy was an idiot of the highest degree. What could possibly have prompted him to keep the damn thing? I turned my thoughts to other matters when I realised my teeth were clenched.  
            The rest of what the trader had said bothered me greatly. Urgals on the move, on roads and near people. Was that why my father and Murtagh hadn't met me at the lake? Had they encountered Urgals? I had no doubt that my father could deal with any threats he came across, he was the finest swordsman in the whole Empire, but they could have been delayed avoiding the creatures. I tried to convince myself that was all it was, that they would be waiting for me at the river basin. I'd been severely delayed by that blizzard, and my leg, so they should've had time to catch up, no matter how many detours they'd taken. I tried to make myself believe it.  
            And then there was the Shade. If the king was sending him out to do other work, enough work for rumours to have spread this far, then something had to be happening, but it had been going on for too long for it to be because of Murtagh's escape. I didn't know how far the king would be willing to go to get him back. Hopefully we'd never find out, we would all leave the Empire, together, and never hear his name again. For a single moment, I wished that I hadn't left early, that we'd all fled together. At least then I would know what had happened. I wouldn't be worrying over them both, carrying around so many questions without answers.

 

I covered a fair amount of ground that day, though I spent so much time going up and down that I probably didn't move as far east as it felt like I did. As evening drew in, I stopped on a relatively level piece of ground, cleared away some of the undergrowth and built up a small fire. I was halfway through my dinner of roasted venison when I felt a hard tap on my leg. I wasn't even surprised by it. Without moving the piece of meat from the fire, I pulled up my trouser leg and watched with a detached curiosity as the blue colour concentrated on a certain point twice more, accompanied by new tapping. Another trader? Or the boy himself? I barely even cared. It felt like I was watching someone else's limb, not my own. I looked away.  
            After I'd eaten, still sucking the juice from my fingers, I considered the burn. It looked to me like the colours were moving faster than they used to, but it was hard to tell. Carefully, I drew one of my knives, tested it with my thumb, then set the point against the burn. It clicked slightly as they connected, a similar sound to the one when the stone had been struck. The hard area did not give under the blade as I pressed gently on my calf. I could barely feel the pressure. Turning the blade, I lay the edge across my leg, hesitated, then drew it sharply down. I felt a stab of fear, watching the blade move across my skin, but no pain, and as I pulled the knife away, there was no wound left behind, no blood, not even a scratch. I put the dagger aside and ran my hands over my leg. The burn was slightly cooler than the rest of my skin, hard and firm, and completely unblemished. It was like armour, like a patch of my skin had turned into stone. Even more disturbed than before, I slid my knife away and lay down, watching the fire flicker as I ran my fingers lightly over the burn, thinking about everything and nothing. Sleep came slowly.

 

The moon was bright overhead when I awoke very suddenly, sitting up with a gasp as I clutched at my calf. The pain was sharp, and continued to build, like cramp, growing stronger and stronger until my teeth were gritted against the urge to cry out. The agony peaked, then lessened suddenly. Panting, I quickly piled more twigs onto my little fire, breathing life back into it. When the flames caught, I left it to burn, ripping up my trousers and staring down at my leg. The colours were twirling alarmingly fast, moving ceaselessly across my skin, the blue far stronger than the white, which was suddenly extinguished as the blue flared, and pain shot through me again. It faded slowly, the pain lessening as the blue withdrew from the edges of the burn, condensing in the middle in a single pulsing mass of colour. Twice more it erupted outwards, stunning me with bursts of pain, and then I shattered, cracking and breaking into a million tiny pieces like glass dropped onto a hard floor, irreparable. It didn't hurt though. It felt like being set free, released after an imprisonment of a thousand years.  
            How long I lay there, gasping, revelling in the sensation, I don't know. The moon was still directly above me when I shook myself free, but it felt like I'd been lost for hours. Rolling over with a noise between a groan and a sigh, I looked down at my leg, and the white burn upon it. There wasn't even the faintest hint of blue on my skin. Unsure whether to be worried or relieved, I slumped back to the ground. My leg, left too close to the fire, grew steadily hotter until I pulled it backwards, away from the flames. But the heat didn't diminish. Frowning, I sat up, looking down at my leg. It was glowing, actually giving off its own light, the burn shining as if there was a lantern beneath my skin. Brighter and brighter the light grew, and the heat built with it, until I was sure the skin around would burn again. I couldn't touch the burn for the heat radiating off it, so I settled for clamping both my hands around my leg just above the knee, rocking back and forth a little as I tried not to scream. The trees around me were clearly visible now, lit up by the glow shining from my leg, their wide trunks looming over me like silent spectral witnesses to my pain. Just when I thought the pain could build no higher, it was gone. For one single second, I gasped with relief, sure it was over. It wasn't. A sudden blast of icy energy surged into my leg, racing up my body, burning in my veins, in my heart, like liquid fire, scorching me from the inside out. And I screamed. It was agony beyond a cut or a blow, pain beyond pain, and I lost myself to its raging inferno.  
            After what seemed like hours, the fire faded, leaving me cold and shaking on the ground, my jaw aching, my body stiff and sore. Carefully, fearful that any movement would bring the pain back again, I pushed myself up. My left leg was totally numb, and the burn was still glowing, but only faintly. Exhausted and aching, I flopped back to the ground and let my eyes close. What, in the name of every god, had that been?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to onoheiwa for betaing for me, I hope you enjoyed!!


	4. A Storm is Coming

It took me six days to leave the mountains behind, helped greatly by a convenient ravine. Unfortunately, it eventually turned away to the south, forcing me to climb over the steep ranges again. But they were behind me now, shrinking into the distance with every step. The forest remained, staying with me all the way to the river, the trunks becoming thinner and more spaced out, ancient trees giving way to skinny saplings of cedar and willow as the ground underfoot became boggy. Unlike the Ramr which I was so much more familiar with, the Anora River didn't have a defined bank, not at this point anyway. The whole area seemed to be just one huge patch of swampy wetness. With a sigh, I found a slightly higher patch of ground that didn't try to sink out from under my feet and took a breather. I had to go all the way across this to get to the other side where I would meet up with Father and Murtagh. The sun was still high, so I grit my teeth, rolled up my trousers, shed my socks, and resigned myself to wet boots, promising myself a decent fire that evening to dry them out before I struck out again.  
            It took longer than I’d expected for my boots to dry properly, even after I'd moved beyond the swamp on the other side of the river, resulting in some very miserable days with slightly soggy toes that went cold quickly. Every day I would walk along the river bank, eyes peeled as I scanned the east and the south, watching desperately for any signs of people approaching. The worst part was that I saw them with alarming regularity. Several times a day new figures would appear on the horizon, and my heart leapt with hope. But every time, I was disappointed, having to watch as unknown travellers passed by my various hiding places.  
            After a week, I was dejected and angry. After two, I was desperate. I moved further north, in case they were camped closer to Ceunon, then retreated back south, but found no sign of them. Food became a far less important concern as I stopped eating without even noticing. Sleep evaded me, and I spent almost every night walking, in the hope of stumbling across their camp in the dark. My thoughts became fuzzy and blurred, nothing more than a constant cycle of two words, repeated over and over again. _Father. Murtagh. Father. Murtagh. Father. Murtagh._

 

The whole world was spinning. Up and down. Round and round. Right becomes left and wrong becomes right. Day and night merging. Always something hanging in the sky. Always walking. One foot in front of the other. Just keep moving. That rock looked like Murtagh the moss flopping down over it like his hair my hair is growing out it's annoying me I don't know how he stands it. The ground just hit me. That wasn't very nice of it why did it do that? Why is the horizon vertical? Maybe I should just lie here for a while. Oh right, that was it, I was lying down. Interesting. Hadn't done that in a while. I used to. Didn't I? When it went dark... now I just kept walking. Always walking. And looking. Mustn't forget to look. I should be looking now, be walking now, but it took so much effort just to turn my head. So much easier to just lie here, to stop, to give in, to give up... My eyes drifted shut. Now if only she would shut up. That stupid whispering girl. Didn't she know it was the middle of the night? She wasn't exactly being quiet, if I could hear her through the walls. Maybe Father could hear her too, I should get up and ask him... but climbing the stairs... it would be so much easier just to lie here and got back to sleep. If only she would shut up then I could. What was she saying? It sounded like the same word, over and over again, but too quietly for me to work out what it was. I should ask my father. He would know. He knew everything. My eyes were so heavy. It was dark at least, only the gentle starlight shining down on me, no blinding sun or sharp flames. I was outside. Outside. Which meant... I wasn't at home, I wasn't in bed, I wasn't in the capital. Murtagh, Father, the lake, the mountains, crossing the river. There shouldn't be anyone else here. But I could hear a voice. There was someone close by.  
            I was on my feet in a second, crouching low to the ground as I spun on the spot, searching every shadow for movement, for an approaching figure. I couldn't see anyone, and the whispering seemed to have stopped. Maybe it had just been someone passing by. Or just my sleep-deprived brain. Which was starting to spin again. Shaking my head, I rose slowly to my feet and moved towards a dense clump of willow trees. I wasn't even sure which direction was north anymore, so it was probably better to just stop here, rather than risk stumbling out into the middle of the road. Though people probably wouldn't be travelling at this time of night... should all be asleep. Unless they were walking, endlessly walking.... In the deepest patch of shadows, I dropped my pack and collapsed to the ground, not even feeling the roots under my side. _Sleep_ , I told myself, and I did.

 

It was still dark when I woke, though I suspected it would be more accurate to say that it was dark again. I could finally think straight and knew at once that I'd been utterly stupid. Walking myself into the ground wasn't going to help me, or my father, or my brother. So the first thing I did was go hunting. It felt odd to be eating again, though maybe that was just because I wasn't used to eating fish. It was a nice change from venison and rabbit though. The bones were a nuisance, but did ensure that I took my time, chewing each flaky mouthful carefully. I couldn't manage more than a few bites before my stomach rebelled and I took a break, staring into the crackling fire and thinking hard. My father and Murtagh weren't here. Though I'd lost track of time, I guessed I'd been wandering the swamp alongside the road for at least two weeks, possibly three. Either we had the worst luck in the world, and had missed each other entirely, or something had happened, something worse than anything I'd considered up to this point. So now I had to choose. Either I could continue north, flee the Empire without them, or I could go back south, and try to find them. I smiled grimly, though there was no-one to see it. There was no choice there. I would give them one more week. One more week of watching the road without moving camp, in case they were looking for me, and then I would go back. I wasn't going to leave without them. It wasn't an option, not for me. They had one week to find me.

 

One week later, I stood in the pre-dawn light, staring across the plain one last time. Their time was up. I'd given them the week I'd promised myself I would, doing all the things I'd been neglecting; eating, sleeping, and spending time sparring against imaginary opponents, dancing among the trees. I'd shaved off the scruffy beard that had grown in over my cheeks, and dried meat for the journey ahead. The last thing I did was to take up a jagged rock from the ground and hack some rough symbols into the bark of a tree, where they would be clearly visible from the road. An 'M' and a 'T', above an arrow pointing down. If an arrow pointing up meant to go forward, then surely an arrow pointing down meant to go back. For a moment I stood, eyeing my handiwork critically. Hopefully they would take it as the message it was, rather than as a warning, though at this point I was beginning to doubt that they would see it. It had been too long. Something was definitely wrong. It was up to me to find them now. Without looking back, I turned away and headed west, back towards the mountains. As much as I preferred the plains' open landscape, the familiarity of the plants and animals, I had missed the cover that the dense forest and twisting valleys provided me with. Habit kept my head turning, looking for larger movement, for the outline of a person. All week I'd been hearing voices, a woman most often, but sometimes a man as well. They were always quiet, drifting towards me from far away, but unnerving all the same. I'd moved camp three times, but it made no difference. Probably just the water messing with the acoustics. Either way, I couldn't wait to leave the water-logged ground behind.  
            I didn't bother keeping my boots on this time as I entered the boggy river basin, carrying them with me as I placed my bare feet with infinite care in the water that sloshed halfway up my burn. Darting fish fled from my presence, disappearing through the shimmering water with startling speed. Some of the bigger ones hesitated long enough for me to admire their shining scales before they flicked their tails lazily and continued on past. My knees were soon stiff with cold, chilled by the breeze blowing across the water, but I pushed onward, tracking the sun overhead, knowing there wasn't much further to go now. Soon after it had peaked in the sky, I was walking on firm ground again. I gave my legs another half an hour to dry before brushing off the dirt that covered the soles and rolling on my socks, doing my best not to whimper at the luxurious warmth. Tying my boots tightly at my ankles, I rolled down my trouser legs and pushed on again, jogging for short stretches to warm my feet up properly, covering the ground quickly with my long, relaxed strides. I was climbing the foothills of the mountains before the sun had set.

 

For nearly two weeks I made my way through the mountains, moving west to join the main branch of the Spine, then turning south. Every day I imagined that I recognised a tree or path from my previous trip, though I tried to avoid the route I'd taken before. I bypassed the falls and Palancar Valley completely, the sound of the roaring water rising and then fading behind me in a single day. The constant movement, the feeling of action, the belief that I was, at last, doing something other than sitting around and waiting, goaded me into better spirits than I had been in a month. I still worried about my father and Murtagh. Their names cycled around my head as I walked, filling my thoughts when I tried to sleep, but I could at least convince myself that I was going to help them, that I was on the path that would lead to our reunion. I kept my bow ready in my hands as I walked, eyes always peeled for any movement, from either innocent animals that could become my next meal, or for more sinister outlines of people. Every twitch of a leaf sent my thoughts immediately to the latter, though never on any solid grounds. I kept walking, ignoring the conclusions my suspicious mind leapt to, and trying to block out the whispering in my ears that seemed to become clearer every day, to the point where I started noticing when I _couldn't_ hear it.

 

The forest was quiet, peaceful. The first few leaves were beginning to push forth, though it was still cold enough that I suspected they regretted it. They gave the sunlight a slightly green tinge as it wound gently to the ground. The only sound was the distant call of songbirds, twittering to themselves on some distant branch. I felt a tickle in my ear, the distant sound of a voice, tugged and twisted on the air until the words were unrecognisable. I walked on, carefully stepping over a fallen log, lying at an angle across the path.  
            _Fire! Enemies! Death! Murderers!_ I ran, my blood boiling, a snarl on my face, a terrible anger filling me up like fire. _Oaths betrayed, souls killed, eggs shattered! Blood everywhere. Murderers!_ My feet moved even faster, flying over the ground. _They would pay for it, all of them. I would end them in a single moment of blood and steel and fire for what they'd done._ I was more angry, and more scared, than I had ever been before in my life. Worse than if I'd been facing down a hundred swordsmen by myself, worse than the time I'd seen blood pouring from Murtagh's neck and known there were people who wanted him dead, and would act to make it happen... _Murtagh_. I skidded to a halt, catching myself on a tree and ripping my hands to shreds on the rough bark. What was I doing? There was no fire, no enemies, nothing to run from. But my legs were shaking from the exertion of my desperate flight. Something had made me run, and I didn't understand what.  
            Slowly, I sank to the ground, gasping for breath as my legs trembled. I stared at the pattern of light falling on the heather, letting it fill up my thoughts, blocking out all else. Only when my legs were still once more did I blink and look up. The sun was falling down, already halfway through its descent into the west. With a grimace, I climbed unsteadily to my feet. I'd been lucky not to twist an ankle at the very least. Cautiously, I moved off again, climbing up the steep incline ahead of me. Some part of me was still away of the gaping chasm of fear in the back of my mind, but I turned my thoughts away, focussing on the movement of my legs. It wasn't until I reached for a branch, pulling myself higher on the slope that I winced, remembering the anchorage I'd used to stop. I looked down at my hands in slight trepidation. They looked worse than they were, a pattern of shallow scratches across my palms that stung more than they actually hurt. My left hand was worse than my right; it didn't have the rough calluses developed from years of swordplay, despite my father's best efforts to make me train with my left hand as much as my right. Wiping the blood away, I kept on walking, pondering over the fact that I had been able to ignore them for so long, but now that I was aware of it, the sharpness of the cuts was all I could focus on.  
            The sun had just set, darkness slipping quietly over the world, when I gasped as a sudden wave of pain hit me. My hand automatically jumped to my inner thigh, sure that I would find blood under my fingers. But there was nothing. The pain was not mine, just an echo of an echo, yet it still left me breathless with its intensity. Hunched over against a tree, the ends of my lengthening hair tickling my cheeks, I closed my eyes as another spike of agony shot through me, grimacing at the sensation that was not my own. It took a minute for it to diminish. Scowling, I stood up. I was sick of this now, tired of these strange feelings and events. With a noise between a sigh and a growl, I moved on, looking for a place to stop for the night. I needed to rest, to— _help_ —keep moving. I had to get there. It was so important. My legs moved faster, breaking into a jog, any memory of pain forgotten as I turned my steps further west, chasing the setting sun. I couldn't stop, I had to keep moving.

 

I kept moving all through the night, tripping over the undergrowth in the dark without even noticing. Over and over again, one word blazed through my mind. _Help._ I recognised the voice; it was the same one I'd been hearing for weeks, but now it was directed _at_ me, and I couldn't ignore its call. My fingers and thighs were trembling from cold and exhaustion when the sun rose on the other side of the sky. At some point, I'd climbed high enough for there to be snow on the ground again, crunching under my feet as I moved through the trees, searching for something I didn't want to find. The sun had fully risen and was shining down on my back when I found it. When I found them.

 

_It's a lizard,_ I told myself firmly. _Just a really,_ really _, big lizard. They don't exist outside these mountains, that's all. It's just a rare lizard._ I knew exactly what it was. From the white fangs, and the huge, translucent wings, right down to the tip of its tail, it was anything but a lizard. I didn't move, just standing on the edge of the clearing, staring in a mixture of shock and wonder. I had no desire to move anymore, no burning need to go on. The compulsion had lifted, because I had reached my goal.  
            It moved like wind, like water, like nature itself, without asking for permission or opinion. The sunlight flashed off its brilliantly blue scales as it rolled over, shaking itself and stretching, showing off every single one of its teeth as it yawned, and turned its head to stare directly at me. I barely noticed the figure that rose from behind it, hobbling slowly across the clearing as I looked straight into the dragon's eye.  
            _I feel you._ The thought rose so gently, so true, that I couldn't tell which of us it originated from. It hung between us like a declaration that the sky was blue, irrefutable, undeniable.  
            "What the... who are you?" I would have paid more attention to a fly buzzing around my head than his voice, but my eyes did flick in his direction at the sound and I did a double-take. It was the same boy, the one I'd seen in the forest, the one I'd followed in the village.  
            "You?"  
            "Who are you? How did you find us?" he demanded.  
            _I called him_. I turned my gaze back to her as her oddly familiar voice resonated in my head. 'Help', she had called, and I had come.  
            "Don't ever do that again," I told her.  
            "You can hear her?" he asked suspiciously. _Why did you call him?_ His voice was quieter in my head than hers, but still clearly audible.  
            _Eragon..._ she chided gently, _I didn't know how badly hurt you were. I thought you might need help._  
            _I'm fine,_ Eragon snapped back.  
            "You're bleeding," I pointed out. It was true. The inside of both his thighs, all the way to his knees, was coloured red with blood. He scowled and turned away.  
            _Keep an eye on him_ , he said as he hobbled across the clearing to one of the trees, throwing his weight against a branch. It held for a moment, then cracked, the sound echoing around the clearing. I watched in silence as he stripped the twigs, then shoved one end under his arm, using the makeshift crutch to shuffled across to the stream. Crouching down, he began to drink and quick sips, his back firmly to me.  
            _Who are you?_ I turned my gaze back to the dragon.  
            _Who are you?_ I countered, and she drew back, stretching out her sinuous neck to its full length, so I had to tilt my head back to look up at her.  
            _I am Saphira_ , she said proudly, and it was more than just a name, it was a declaration of herself to the word, a feeling too complex to describe, somehow all contained in that one word. If it had been the boy, I would have just turned away, but this was different. I could feel it.  
            _Toren_ , I said grudgingly, and she let out a puff of air in acknowledgement, just as Eragon came limping back towards us. We eyed each other warily, neither of us quite sure what to say.  
            "How long?" I asked eventually.  
            "How long what?"  
            "How long have you been hiding a dragon?"  
            "What? You were there," he frowned at me.  
            "Excuse me?"  
            "You were there when the egg appeared." _Egg_. I took a step backwards without realising it. _Not a stone, an egg._ My leg shivered.  
            "And you were stupid enough to take it back with you," I lashed out at him, and he snarled.  
            "What's that supposed to mean?"  
            "What do you think it means?" I shouted, my voice rising. "She's a dragon!" I gestured wildly to Saphira. "A dragon! How long do you think you can keep that a secret? How long do you think you've got before the king finds out, before he sends people, or something _worse_ , out looking for her, if they're not here already!?" His face paled abruptly and I fell silent. "They're here already," I said dully. He didn't reply, but that was answer enough. "You should run," I told him, taking another step backwards into the trees. "Run, and don't ever look back."  
            "I can't," he said. "My uncle..." For all the contempt I felt, I couldn't deny the stab of pity that shot through me.  
            "I'm sorry," I said, and I almost meant it, "but there's nothing you can do. You should leave while you've still got a chance." He turned away in disgust.  
            _You need to take me home,_ he said to Saphira. She hesitated and he ploughed on. _We both owe Garrow a debt that we can't just ignore. He cared for me, and through me, you. We can still get to him. We can't just cower here in the mountains; the Rider and his Craven Dragon! This isn't a fight we can shy away from. Even a Shade would run from you, you're a dragon! So let's stop hiding like frightened rabbits!_ Angered, she growled, jabbing her head towards him as she bared her fangs.  
            _Blood will meet blood!_ She snarled. _I will take you, for the debt that is owed, but it's into foolishness we fly_. He didn't reply, ripping off his shirt and tearing it in half, stuffing  half down each side of his trousers.  
            "She's right, Eragon," I warned him, "this is foolish. Think about what you're risking."  
            "Foolishness or not, we must go," he said, as he hauled himself onto Saphira's scaly back, and I knew at once how he'd injured himself. Unable to stop myself, I moved forwards again as Saphira crouched low to the ground, then surged upwards, her two huge wings beating hard, throwing up puffs of snow and leaves around me as she soared into the sky. I watched the blue dragon and her rider disappear behind the treetops with my heart lighter than air and my stomach in twisted knots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, let me know what you thought! Many thanks, as always to my wonderful betas, Harvester of Dreams and onoheiwa for going through this chapter for me.  
> Title is from The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King Soundtrack, by Howard Shore


	5. Here Be Dragons

My breaths came hard and fast as I scrambled my way down the eastern side of the peak, slipping on the melting snow and wet leaves beneath it. In the back of my mind, I could still feel Saphira, though her presence was a lot weaker than when I'd been standing only feet away from her. A dragon. Another dragon in Alagaesia. I barely saw the world around me, the branches whipping across my face, the trees flashing past as I hurtled down the mountain side. It wasn't until I reached the bottom, crashing into a stream that ran along the ravine that I realised my cheeks were streaked with the remnants of my tears. Slowly, I took stepped forwards, moving out of the stream before the water could penetrate my boots. The cold numbness of my feet was nothing compared to the emptiness in my head. Fate had a cruel sense of humour; a dragon hatching, the one thing that might just be able to save this country from Galbatorix, and she'd chosen the biggest idiot in the whole Empire, who was now going to get them both killed. I shouldn't have let them leave. I should have done something. Anything. Closing my eyes, I shuddered slightly, trying to dispel the emotions clogging my senses like wet mud. It wasn't just anger hanging over me. Opening my eyes, I looked down at my leg. My burn wasn't just the result of magic transporting a stone across the world. I'd come into contact with a dragon's egg, and I had absolutely no idea what it had done to me, or what it meant, but it terrified me. I stumbled forwards, following the stream in a daze, letting the water lead me on a winding path that felt far less convoluted than my life was at the moment.  
            The sun had peaked in the sky and was falling again before I roused myself from my thoughts. Nothing had become any clearer throughout the day, and for a moment I wondered why I'd suddenly snapped back to the present. It only took another second for my numbed brain to register the smell of smoke. Alarmed, I looked round wildly, searching the sky for wisps of grey, but I couldn't find any. Then I realised I wasn't the one smelling it. With a sigh, I closed my eyes, reaching out. This time, I was aware of what I was doing, of following the connection rooted in my calf, tracing it across the mountains to where a dragon was coming in to land.  
            Looking through Saphira's eyes, I saw the remnants of the farmhouse, though it was only from her expectations that I knew what it had been. To me, it looked like nothing but a pile of pulverised wood and sooty shingles, as if the house had been blasted apart. In the background, a barn was still burning, sending billows of thick oily smoke furling through the sky. Eragon darted across my field of vision, clambering over the wreckage, shouting for his uncle. I pulled my thoughts away. There was nothing left in that house but ruin and death. I didn't want to be a witness to his pain, though I felt it a second later, a sharp sting across my right knuckles. For a second, I wondered just what he had punched in his frustration. I moved on, paying a little more attention to my surroundings. The valley was running east, but appeared to fork a little way ahead, one branch turning south. I would head that way. But as I picked up my pace a little, I was distracted by a shout, my thoughts drawn inward by the call.  
            _Saphira! I need you!_ I watched the ground flash beneath her as she soared to him at once, crawling over the ruined walls of the house to reach his side. We could make out a hand extending out from under a heavy beam that had collapsed.  
            _He's alive..._ Saphira barely acknowledged my wonderment, setting her side against the beam and heaving. I could feel her claws digging into the floor as she strained. The beam lifted with a grating sound and Eragon sprang forwards, dragging the limb body out. Saphira dropped the beam with a crash, turning our eyes to follow Eragon as he dragged his uncle out of the house. He was still alive. We could hear the rattling breaths coming from his chest, each one an effort for the man. I could barely recognise his face as the one I'd seen in the market a few weeks ago.  
            _Murderers,_ Saphira hissed, and I echoed the sentiment sadly. She was right. He might not be dead yet, but it was only a matter of time. I blocked out Eragon's words of determined hope, pulling away from them both again, though the echo of their emotions remained with me, sending fresh tears trickling down my cheeks. I brushed them away with an impatient hand, breaking into a jog as I continued along the valley.  
            Before I'd even reached the fork, I was panting. My legs ached, and my arms ached, and my shoulders, and my back... I knew it wasn't my muscles that were struggling, but I couldn't block out the pain as it grew stronger and stronger, until she finally gave in, landing with a stab of relief. I kept moving, trying to convince my mind that slowing down wouldn't make the pain stop. It wasn't easy, especially after Saphira took to the air again. I'd just reached the fork in the valley when she landed again, staggering a little as her legs folded under her. I could still feel her, off to the east. For a second, I looked between the two paths. East, or south. I hesitated, then groaned, turning and stomping along the eastern branch. A few more days wouldn't make much difference.  
            Only when the decisions was out of sight behind me did I climb a little higher up the mountain side and huddle down for the night. Saphira's presence was like a beacon I'd been seeing for weeks but only recently recognised, though now she was still fast asleep, and unlikely to wake soon. I'd felt Eragon collapse only minutes before. He'd done better than I'd expected. Not that it was difficult; I'd never had high hopes for him. Maybe he would prove me wrong.

 

It was with extreme reluctance that I awoke the next morning. A quick reach out and I found that Saphira was still deeply asleep, though not that far away. With a sigh I got up, groaning as I stretched, shaking out my numb limbs. With my bow ready in my hands, I moved off, more cautiously than I had the day before, placing my feet carefully among the undergrowth, eyes peeled for any sign of movement.

 

Saphira opened one eye as I entered the clearing where she had curled up, watching as I dragged the goat across the ground, panting with the sustained effort. Dropping the horned head, I flopped down a few feet away, staring up at the sky, just visible through the treetops. The ground shuddered a little as Saphira climbed to her feet. My thoughts brushed hers for just long enough to confirm that the animal was indeed for her, before she pulled away, and began to eat. I remained where I was, trying not to listen to the ripping sounds. The goat was larger than I'd realised when I'd first spotted it, and heavier too. My legs were still shaking from the effort of dragging it here. Carrying it had been out of the question.  
            _Why did you come back?_ Saphira asked me. I rolled my head sideways. Saphira was watching me out of one large eye, while continuing to shred the goat to pieces.  
            _You're welcome,_ I said grouchily. She snorted, pausing long enough to throw me a look. I pushed myself up, resting my elbows on my knees as she returned to her meal. _I don't know,_ I confessed, gazing off into the trees. _I guess I thought it was important enough._  
            _Important enough to what?_  
            _I don't know!_ I snapped.  
            _Liar,_ she said coolly, _what are you doing here? Where did you come from?_  
            _I could ask you the same questions,_ I pointed out. She huffed again, but didn't reply. For a few moments I let the silence persist, though it was not a pleasant one. But I had chosen this. _How's Eragon?_  
            _Still asleep_ , she admitted, her thoughts coloured with sadness, and a little worry.  
             _He found his uncle._  
            _Yes,_ she confirmed, though it hadn't been a question. This time the pause was more companionable, though still full of things that went unsaid. I didn't ask if he was still alive. Having finished eating, Saphira flopped back down, yawning widely as she curled up.  
_I'm going back to sleep,_ she announced, and I smiled a little as her eyes closed.  
            "Sleep well," I murmured.

 

The day after next I woke alone. The clearing seemed much bigger without Saphira there to occupy half the space. It was also snowing again, the sky hidden by angry storm clouds. I was pleased to be at a lower altitude, with the trees and the bulk of the mountains for cover. Still, it was cold and I got up quickly, pacing back and forth to try and work some warmth into my limbs. When that didn't work, I pulled my sword from its sheath and fell into a ready position in the very centre of the clearing, taking a couple of seconds to steady myself before I began to dance. Countless enemies fell before me, faceless figures cut down by lunges and slashes. I was hot and panting when I felt Saphira's return, reaching out instinctively to check it was her, though I knew long before I saw her blue wings overhead. I could feel her approach, sliding my sword away as I watched her descend, the down draft from her wings throwing up flakes of snow that had barely settled. With a thud she landed, but didn't acknowledge me, staring away to the east instead.  
            _What is it?_  
            _Eragon,_ she replied tersely, _he's awake, but isn't responding to me._ I reached out, tracing her connection to him.  
            _Let me help,_ I suggested, and she agreed, readying herself.  
            _ERAGON!_ she shouted, and I joined my voice to hers, sending the thoughts hurting across the bond between them.  
            _Saphira?_ his reply was anxious but muddled. Satisfied, I pulled back, allowing them some privacy as I returned to my pack, pulling out a piece of meat that I'd cooked the previous night. It still smelled alright, though I expected it wouldn't last much longer. I would have to hunt again soon. I hadn't finished eating when Saphira shook her head and turned round, lying down on the ground and stretching her neck out, her eyes fixed upon me.  
            _How is he?_ I asked reluctantly,  
            _Awake, which is something. Healing. His uncle is no better though._ I looked away, the meat souring in my mouth. _You think he's going to die._  
            _Don't you?_ I challenged her. She didn't reply and I looked away. _Anything else?_  
            _He said he won't be able to leave for at least a couple of days, so we'll be on our own for a while longer._ I glanced across at her. _'We'..._ I didn't mention her casual use of the word, as if she'd never considered the possibility that I might leave. Maybe she hadn't.  
            _You went hunting, didn't you?_ I asked, eyeing the slight traces of blood marring the perfect scales on her face, feeling the wordless confirmation in her mind. At least she could get food for herself.  
            We didn't talk much for the rest of the day. Saphira left a couple of times, leaping into the air and soaring away without a word of explanation, not that I asked for one. I considered leaving while she was gone, just walking away, but something always held me in place. _Stupidity,_ I told myself firmly, but I still didn't leave.

 

We awoke at exactly the same time the next morning, if it could be called that. It was still dark, hours before dawn, the time when all is still, frozen in silent watchfulness, waiting for the sun to bring warmth back to the world. My breath plumed in the air as I jerked upright, gasping as tears began to slid, unbidden down my cheeks. It felt like to world was falling out from under my feet, leaving me lost in numb darkness, where no ray of light would ever penetrate again. Across the clearing, Saphira had surged upright, whirling around, her fangs flashing through the darkness.  
            _Eragon!_ she cried, and only then did I manage to break myself free of the emotions pouring into me, though Saphira. _Eragon!_ she called again, desperation colouring her thoughts. _Help me,_ she snarled at me, _he's hurt, someone's hurting him._ I wiped Eragon's tears from my face as I slumped forwards.  
            _Saphira, stop._ Something in my tone must have reached her, for she went still at once. _No one's hurting him,_ I told her wearily.  
            _What's wrong with him?_ she pleaded.  
            _Grief,_ I explained sadly. _His uncle is dead_.  
            _How do you know?_ I sighed.  
            _I just do,_ I said. It wasn't hard, there was only one thing that could have caused that crushing grief. It was the same way I would feel if... I shut down that thought. They weren't dead. They were not dead. _We should get some more sleep_ , I said dully.  
            _But what about Eragon?_ Saphira asked. _What do I say to help him?_ I looked at her in pity.  
            _There's nothing you can say that will make it better. Just be there for him_. Turning away, I lay back down, pulled my blanket up over my ears and closed my eyes.

 

It was still early morning when I woke again, sitting up at once. Saphira didn't seem to have slept, but was crouched like a cat, staring through the trees in the direction of Palancar Valley. Standing up, I stretched, my joints popping a little. I knew from her worry that Eragon still wasn't talking to her. Or maybe he was asleep, for my emotions seemed to be my own. It didn't stay that way for long though, for my eyes suddenly became wet as a fresh wave of anguish enveloped me.  
            _I can't live with this._ His moan was quiet, deadened by his despair.  
            _Then don't,_ Saphira answered him. I pulled my mind away, turning and striding off into the forest as I fought to break the connection between us. That was not a conversation I wanted to listen to.  
            It only took a few moments for me to lose myself in the trees, revelling in the silence, both in my ears, and in my mind. It had been only a couple of days, but it felt like much longer. Then again, I reasoned to myself, I'd been hearing Eragon and Saphira's voices since before I'd left the Anora River, and before then.... I stopped dead, a memory suddenly coming to me. A night in the woods, blinding pain in my leg, the feeling of cracking, shattering, breaking. Feeling like I'd been set free... that had been Saphira hatching. I'd felt her right from the start. Stunned, I moved on again, wandering aimlessly in a wide circle as I tried to think. It all came back to the burn. Everything had changed the night it had been seared into my leg.  
            _No!_ I thought roughly to myself. _Nothing has changed. Nothing._ Nothing was about me anymore. It was all about my father and brother. Every one of my goals revolved around getting them back. The desire was like a spark in the back of my mind, kept quiet, buried deep, always hidden, but never fading in its intensity. My heart didn't beat for myself anymore; it beat for them. And that, I knew, was why I couldn't sink as low as Eragon had right now, because I still had people I was fighting for.

 

Saphira was waiting, her eyes following me as I emerged from the trees. Cautiously I opened my mind to her again.  
            _What are you going to do now?_ I asked her. Shuffling a little, she settled more comfortably onto her legs.  
            _We're going to track down the people who did this, and make them pay._ I stared at her.  
            _Maybe you two are better suited for each other than I thought_ , I said angrily.  
            _What does that mean?_ she hissed, arching her neck.  
            _Saphira!_ Eragon's voice cut between us, a desperate call. For a few seconds, Saphira continued to stare at me, then she huffed and turned her thoughts away.  
            _Yes,_ she answered Eragon.  
            _We've been discovered! I need you!_ A picture flashed through our minds, with a sense of direction, and masked fear. Saphira took off at once, the power of her wings buffeting me. I watched her fly out of sight with narrowed eyes, then turned away and began to shove all my things into my pack, muttering to myself under my breath. They had to be the biggest pair of idiots in the whole Empire. I didn't know what had ripped that farmhouse apart, and I didn't need to. The image of the splintered wood, seen through Saphira's eyes, flashed before me. Nothing human had done that much damage. If Eragon and Saphira thought they could take on creatures who could do that, they were mistaken. Gritting my teeth, I glared off in the direction Saphira had flown. I could still feel her, in some deep part of my mind, knew exactly where she was. I could hear the murmuring of her voice, and Eragon's replies, though I shut them out as much as possible. I was done with them both. I'd lingered long enough.  
            Hoisting my pack over my shoulder, I set off, heading east. I couldn't be bothered to hide any more, the rippling anger making me reckless. It would be easier to follow the valley out to the plains and strike out into the Empire from there. That was the limit to my plan for the moment, but the journey would give me more than enough time to work through the next stages. Breaking into a jog, crashing through the undergrowth, it only took me a few minutes to break out of the tree line. Saphira and I had been closer to the edge of the forest than I'd realised.  
            _Have you got all your things?_ Frowning, I squinted upwards. I hadn't realised she'd been listening to my decision.  
            _Yes,_ I told her, _I—_  
            _Good,_ she said, plummeting out of the sky, straight towards me. With a cry, I ducked, throwing up an arm instinctively, though I knew it would be no deterrent to a dragon. My other hand jumped to my sword, but before I had time to draw it, Saphira had landed with a thud, her back legs slamming down only a couple of feet away from me, and one of her front legs closing around my middle. Her grip tightened to the point of pain, then she leapt upwards again, the ground falling away beneath us as she surged into the sky.  
            _Saphira, what are you doing?_ I cried, trying not to throw up as the ground fell away from us. She didn't reply, all but ignoring me as she glided over the valley. Groaning, I closed my eyes, but that didn't help, as my head span. Then, all too suddenly, we were descending, hurtling towards the ground at startling speeds. I clamped my jaw shut, my eyes screwed up, and my ears popping. Saphira barely slowed down, two great beats of her wings the only deceleration before she dropped me unceremoniously on the ground. It was not a soft landing. I rolled twice, bouncing a little on the hard ground, the piles of snow doing little to soften the impact. Swearing, I climbed to my feet, glaring at Saphira as she banked hard, turning in the sky and swooping away toward the forest.  
            _Why am I here, Saphira?_ I growled at her, but she ignored me. Wincing a little, I looked around, and groaned. I was on the northern edge of the ruins of Eragon's farmhouse.  
            "Perfect," I grumbled to myself, "just where I want to be." With a sigh, and another glare in Saphira's direction, I hoisted my pack back into position, and began to trudge round the debris. I was only halfway towards to road, when I stopped dead, because the road was already occupied. I recognised Eragon at once, moving gingerly, but with a determined expression.  Beside him walked an old man, with silver hair and a lined face, a pack much larger than mine slung across his back. I barely had time to take them in before I felt Saphira approaching. She dove out of the sky from behind them, so low she almost brushed the tops of their heads, and they staggered as the stream from her wings buffeted them. Wheeling over the farm, she turned, scales glittering in the sun, and landed gracefully in front of them.  
            _Show-off_ , I thought at her, but she ignored me, watching the pair on the road. The older man had stepped forward, his eyes shining as he gaze, enraptured at Saphira. It wasn't hard to see why, looking at her. If I'd seen her for the first time like this, proud and shining, I would never have looked away. Eragon passed the old man, moving towards Saphira as she stepped forward to meet him. With a sigh, I moved forwards, walking towards them. The older man noticed me before Eragon, taking a single step backwards into a defensive stance, shifting his grip on his staff. We watched each other suspiciously, though I didn't stop walking, and Eragon finally noticed me, glancing back over his shoulder.  
            "Toren?" he frowned. "What are you doing here?"  
            "Ask your bloody lizard," I griped. Eragon scowled but let it go as the older man moved forwards a pace, drawing out attention back to himself.  
            "What's her name?" he asked Eragon.  
            "Saphira." An odd expression crossed the man's face, and his hands tightened on his staff. "Of all the names you gave me, it was the only one she liked. I think it fits," Eragon added.  
            "Fit it does," he replied, and there was an undercurrent in his tone that I couldn't identify. I didn't like it. "Greeting, Saphira. I am honoured to meet you," he said, his voice clear again, as he twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed to her.  
            _I like him_ , Saphira said, and I had to contain a snort. Eragon seemed equally amused, though he hid it just as well as I did, touching Saphira gently on the shoulder before moving away towards the ruined house. Saphira trailed after him, leaving the old man and me alone.  
            "Toren," I said, sticking out my hand.  
            "Brom," he replied after a second, shaking it. I blinked, but shook my head as he turned away to follow Eragon. _Coincidence_ , I told myself. Following Brom over the rubble, we watched as Eragon disappeared into the rubble, eventually emerging carrying a bow that I recognised, and a quiver, which he gave to Brom, who examined them both knowledgably.  
            "It takes a strong arm to pull that," he said. Eragon took the compliment in silence, turning away and picking through the rest of the house in silence, eventually dumping a small pile of things on the ground, wrapping it into a tight bundle and tying it closed.  
            "What now?" Brom asked.  
            "We find a place to hide," Eragon said, climbing to his feet and hefting the pack onto his back.  
            "Do you have somewhere in mind?"  
            "Yes." He began to walk, heading off into the forest. _Saphira, follow us in the air, your footprints are too easily found and tracked_ , he said silently.  
            _Very well,_ she replied, taking off at once. I watched her climb higher, but I didn't move, staring after Brom and Eragon's retreating backs, then looking in the opposite direction, down the road towards the head of the valley. _Sorry,_ I thought, then turned and followed the pair of retreating backs. _Just one more night._

 

Eragon lead us on a long, circling path through the forest. For the most part I stayed at the back, but at one point I ended up walking beside him. He broke the silence after only a minute.  
            "Why were you in the Spine?" Taken aback, I blinked, my mind churning as I tried to find an answer.  
            "Which time?" I asked warily, and Eragon scowled.  
            "Any. All of them."  
            "I was travelling," I said shortly.  
            "You speak like you're from a city," Brom cut in from a few paces behind us, where he was clearly listening in, and I fought not to scowl back at him.  
            "I am," I told them shortly. "I left. Went north. I was suppose to meet up with someone outside Ceunon, but they never turned up, so I'm going back south to find them.  
            "Who?" Eragon pressed, though he sounded more curious than suspicious.  
            "My father," I said, after a brief hesitation.  
            "Why were you leaving?"  
            "Because things changed," I snapped, "and it became the best option." As I'd hoped, they both fell silent, Brom letting the distance between us lengthen considerably.  
            "So you're going south now?" Eragon asked, a little more hesitantly than before, his voice low. I nodded, staring at the ground. "Will you come with me?" My head snapped up, and I stared at him for a long time, both startled and confused.  
            "Why would you want me to?" I asked, keeping my voice as quiet as his, so Brom couldn't hear us. He shrugged.  
            "Saphira trusts you," he said simply. I glanced up instinctively, but though I could feel Saphira close by, the trees were blocking my view of her.  
            "As long as we're going in the same direction," I shrugged, "I don't see why not." Eragon nodded his thanks and then turned away. I continued to gaze thoughtfully at him as we walked. _We've barely spent three minutes together, he knows nothing about me. Why would he ask me to travel with him?_  
            _I told him to._ I jumped a little at Saphira's words, not realising she'd been listening.  
            _But why?_ I pressed her, and she gave a mental shrug.  
            _Like Eragon said, I trust you._ Stunned, and a little flattered, I turned my thoughts away, and kept walking.

 

More than an hour after we'd started off, Eragon finally stopped walking and pushed his way into a huge patch of brambles. I watched in slight trepidation as Brom followed him, then ducked through myself. The brambles tore at my hair, making me scowl. It really needed to be cut. And my stubbly chin was starting to annoy me too. The dense bramble wall was thicker than I'd realised, but the clearing at the centre was surprisingly large. At least, it was until Saphira landed in the middle, folding her wings carefully to avoid the thorns, at which point it became much more of a squeeze for all four of us.  
            "Does anyone else know about this place?" Brom asked.  
            "No. I made it when we first moved here. It took me a week to dig into the centre and another week to clear out all the deadwood," Eragon said, watching as Saphira curled up on the ground. I retreated quietly into a corner, shrugging off my pack and sinking to the ground. Brom was still watching Saphira, and Eragon was watching Brom. We stayed that way for a long time. I kept my mind to myself, still a little grumpy at Saphira for bringing me here.  
            Eragon was the first to move, and I watched as he struck a spark and built up a fire, pulling a pot out of his pack and filling it with clean snow before setting it over the crackling flames to melt. I glanced behind me nervously, but the brambles were so thick that I doubted anyone would see the light. The snow melted quickly, but it then took a while for the water to become hot. Eragon pulled a packet of meat out of his pack and began tearing off chunks. I dug in my own pack until my searching fingers found the remains of my last kill.  
            "Here," I said, throwing the packet across the clearing at him, "it's already cooked, so it won't need long, but it won't stay good. Might as well add it in." Eragon nodded in silent thanks, though his eyes lingered on me for longer than I would have liked. It was very quiet as the stew finished cooking and we all ate. We avoided looking at each other, staying firmly in our own places spaced around the clearing. It was getting colder every minute as the sun dropped out of sight. I finished eating first, watching the movement of the other two out the corner of my eye. Only a few minutes later, they finished as well, and Brom promptly pulled out a pipe and lit it. Eragon watched him shrewdly.  
            "Why do you want to travel with me?" Eragon asked. Brom puffed out a cloud of smoke.  
            "I have a vested interest in keeping you alive," he replied, his words slightly muffled around the pipe.  
            "What does that mean?" Eragon demanded and Brom scowled, pulling the pipe from between his teeth and pointing it at Eragon.  
            "To put it bluntly, I'm a storyteller, and I happen to think that you will make a fine story. You're the first Rider to exist outside of the king's control for over a hundred years. What will happen? Will you perish as a martyr?" I had to stop myself snorting. The way he was going it seemed a likely outcome. "Will you join the Varden? Will you kill King Galbatorix? All fascinating questions. And I will be there to see every bit of it, no matter what I have to do." Eragon looked a little sickened by the list and this time I really did feel a stab of pity for him. Nothing more than a boy, with the hopes of the world upon him already.  
            "That may be," he said stubbornly avoiding the issue, "but tell me, how can you talk with Saphira?" It instantly struck me as odd that he would ask Brom this. I talked with Saphira, and he wasn't grilling me. Maybe he thought that was Saphira's doing. Maybe it was. Brom took his time putting more tobacco in his pipe, while my eyes darted between the pair of them, framing the remnants of the fire.  
            "Very well," he said eventually, "if it's answers you want, it's answers you'll get, but they may not be to your liking. And before we get into that..." He climbed to his feet, with none of the hesitation I would have expected from a man of his age, and brought his pack closer to the fire. Almost against my will, I leaned forwards as he pulled out a bundle of cloth, probably 5 feet in length. Slowly, he peeled back the cloth, layer by layer, to reveal a magnificent sword. The hilt was wrapped in fine silver wire, with a gold teardrop pommel enclosing a brilliantly bright ruby the size of an egg. The sheath was smooth as glass, the colour of red wine, with a strange black symbol etched into it. Brom passed the weapon to Eragon, who drew it silently. I let out a breath of wonder. I didn't need to move any closer, or hold it in my hand to know that I was in the presence of a masterpiece. The blade itself was red, a little brighter than the sheath, but with the same black symbol inscribed into the metal. The very air around us seemed to crackle with power and my left calf twitched slightly. The sword was beautiful and terrible. The sight of it scared and elated me in equal measures, though I couldn't have said why.  
            "This was once a Rider's blade," Brom said gravely, and my stomach dropped. _Brom... a Rider's sword... a_ red _Rider's sword_. Suddenly, the revulsion became far stronger, and I wished more than anything for the sword to be put away. "When a Rider finished his training," Brom continued, oblivious to my revulsion, and I looked at him with new eyes, "the elves would present him or her with a sword. Their methods of forging have always remained secret, but you'd be hard pressed to find finer blades; they are eternally sharp and never stain. It was custom to have the blade's colour match that of the dragon, but I think we can make an exception in this case. This sword is named _Misery._ " A shiver went through me at the word, twisted a little by the strange inflection Brom put on it _._ "I don't know what it means, probably something personal to the Rider who owned it." Anger flashed through me. _The Rider..._ Brom knew who that sword had belonged to, had been the one who killed him. Misery was a fitting name for his weapon. Unaware of the sword's origin, Eragon gave the sword an experimental swing. I winced a little as his grip, but the weapon seemed well balanced.  
            "Where did you get it?" he asked Brom, slipping Misery back into its sheath and holding it out to Brom, who did not take it.  
            "It doesn't matter," Brom said. _Not a total lie_ , I thought bitterly to myself. "I will only say that it took me a series of nasty and dangerous adventures to attain it. Consider it yours. You have more of a claim to it than I do, and before all is done, I think you will need it." Anger and curiosity shot through me in equal intensities. Undoubtedly it had indeed been a great string of adventures that had lead to Brom's possession of Morzan's sword, but I personally knew someone who had a far more valid claim to it than either Brom or Eragon, though I doubted that he would have wanted it. I tried to push the thought away, in case Saphira was listening in, but thankfully her attention seemed to be on the other pair.  
            "Thank you," Eragon said, clearly surprised, "it is a princely gift." He lay the sword down, running a hand over the sheath, fingers lingering over the black marking. "What is this symbol?" he asked.  
            "The Rider's personal crest, I believe." Eragon tried to interrupt, but Brom gave him such a fierce glare that he shut his mouth again. I couldn't help grinning. "Now, back to your original question, if you must know, anyone can learn how to speak to a dragon if they have the proper training." This time, Eragon's eyes really did flit to mine. "And," Brom continued, jabbing his finger at Eragon, "it doesn't mean anything if they can." I sent a silent thanks to the heavens. "I know more about dragons and their abilities than almost anyone else alive. On your own it might take years to learn what I can teach you. I'm offering my knowledge as a shortcut. As for how I know so much, I will keep that to myself," Brom finished, in a tone that did not give any doubt to the seriousness of his words. But I didn't need him to say anything. _Rider,_ I thought as I looked at him. Saphira heaved herself up and prowled over to Eragon, who lifted up his new sword to show her.  
            _It has power_ , she said, her words filtering faintly into my mind as she touched the blade with her nose. The brilliant red colour rippled like water as it met her scales, and she lifted her head away with a satisfied snort. I gaped at her, stunned, as Eragon slowly sheathed the sword. Even Brom had raised an eyebrow.  
            "That's what I'm talking about. Dragons will constantly amaze you. Around them... there's no such thing as 'impossible'. Some say even the dragons themselves didn't know the full extent of their powers. What Saphira just did illustrates my earlier point: there is much you don't know."  
            "That may be," Eragon admitted grudgingly, "but I can learn. Right now, the strangers who attack the farm are the most important thing I need to know about. Do you have any idea who they are?"  
            "They are called the Ra'zac," Brom said, and I gasped, causing them all to look round at me. "I see you've heard of them," Brom said dryly.  
            "Only as myths," I replied, shaking my head, trying to remember all the scraps of whispered gossip I'd heard.  
            "Hmm," Brom nodded slowly, "well they were certainly never seen before Galbatorix came to power, and little is really known about them. However, I can tell you both this: they aren't human." Brom's head flicked between us, like a teacher making sure his pupils were paying attention to the lesson. He needn't have worried. Both Eragon and I were listening in grim silence. "When I glimpsed one's head, it appeared to have something like a beak, and huge black eyes, as large as my fist. How they manage to replicate our speech is beyond me. Doubtless the rest of their bodies are just as twisted, which is probably why they keep themselves covered with cloaks, in any weather.  
            "As for their powers, they're stronger than any man, and can jump to incredible heights, but I'm pretty sure they can't use magic. If they could," he said to Eragon, "you would already be in their grasp."  
            "How many are there?" I asked.  
            "As far as I know, only two, but don't underestimate them," Brom said. "Regardless of their numbers, they are dangerous. Whenever Galbatorix hears rumours of a dragon, he sends the Ra'zac to investigate. They're a reliable precursor of death." I looked away, rubbing my face. So Galbatorix knew there was a dragon in this valley. More than ever before, I wished I had never seen Eragon in the forest, that my father and Murtagh had met me in the north. We could have been so far away by now... Eragon was twittering on about how careful he had been, how no one had seen Saphira, and Brom frowned a little.  
            "You're right, it seems unlikely that anyone from Carvahall could have informed the king." Brom glanced across at me, and I glared stonily back until he looked away. "Tell me where you got the egg, that might clarify the issue." My stomach dropped a little, but Eragon launched into the story at once. I watched the fire crackling until he'd finished, hardly noticing the lengthening silence until I looked up to find them both watching me expectantly.  
            "Huh?"  
            "Did you notice anything else?" Eragon asked impatiently.  
            "Oh, no, not really. I was paying more attention to you. And then I was pretty much deafened by the explosion."  
            "You got out of there pretty fast," Eragon pressed.  
            "Well the egg hardly got there by conventional means," I said, in slight exasperation, "I just wanted to be as far away from it as possible." Saphira shifted a little, her eyes on me, but I didn't meet her gaze. With a sigh, I stretched, then shuffled round and lay down.  
            "What are you doing?" Eragon asked.  
            "What does it look like?" I asked, amused. "Going to sleep." They were silent at that for a few minutes, then started talking again, though they kept their voices lower in a show of consideration that surprised me. I tuned out their voices, staring into the dense tangle of brambles inches from my face and trying to impress upon my unconscious mind the importance of not rolling over in my sleep tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long, I know, but I didn't want to split it in half...  
> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, onoheiwa, who helped make this legible, and believe me, it was awful before...


	6. Innocence and Instinct

I woke with a start, panting as I sat up. Dawn hadn't broken yet, and no one else was moving. Taking a deep breath, I pushed a hand through my lengthening hair. _Just a dream_ , I told myself. With a sigh, I rolled over and pushed myself up, crouching beside my pack as I dug through it, extracting my bow and quiver from beneath the jumble. As quietly as I could, I pushed out of the bramble patch and struck out into the forest, not paying any attention to where I was going. Shivering in the chill air, I stomped through the undergrowth, disturbing animals on all sides and not caring.  
            An hour later, I sat on a rock by a stream, two dead rabbits by my side, staring down at the water rushing past. No doubt it would join the Anora at some point in the valley, it knew exactly where it was going. I blinked, and an image of blood and my father's staring face flashed before my eyes. Shaking my head, I looked up, but the picture from the dream remained, imprinted on the inside of my eyelids. Slowly, I twirled my dirty knife between my fingers, returning my gaze to my reflection. Gently, I set the blade to my cheek, clenched my jaw, and drew it down. There wasn't a sound as the knife moved, cutting as easily as if it was sliding through soft butter. A pile of coarse hair dropped from my jaw to the ground. I raised the knife and drew it down again, shaving off another portion of my beard, watching the face I knew emerge slowly from behind it. The wooden handle of the knife was worn and familiar in my fingers. I'd been seven years old when my father had given it to me.  
            " _This isn't a knife you take to a fight,_ " he'd told me, " _this is the one you keep sharp. One you use for dirty work. I hope you never need it._ " Then he'd held me close, and murmured apologies in my ear. The next clump of hair that fell to the ground was accompanied by a drop of liquid.  
            _Toren?_  
            _What is it, Saphira?_ I asked dully, not looking up from the stream.  
            _Eragon and Brom are wondering where you are. They're having breakfast._  
            _Tell them to carry on without me. I'll be back in a little while._  
            _Are you okay?_  
_I'm fine._  
_Are you sure—  
__Just leave me alone!_ She was gone in an instant, my angry words left ringing in my head. I closed my eyes. _Nice work, Toren,_ I thought bitterly at myself.

 

It was a lot longer than a little while later that I made my way back to the hollow. The sun was setting, the day already passed, when I pushed my way into the bramble patch. Eragon glanced up and did a double take, but didn't comment. Brom stared at me too, appraising my shorn hair and clean face. I didn't say a word to either of them, crouching down by the fire and beginning to gut the two rabbits I'd caught earlier.  
            _I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier,_ I said softly to Saphira, who turned her head to watch me haughtily. _Peace offering?_ I held up a handful of rabbit entrails. She snorted, but lowered her head a little. I flicked the blood scraps into the air and she snapped them up cleanly. Eragon was packing bundles neatly into his pack, organising them carefully, and Brom was fiddling with a mass of tangled leather in his hands. I watched him as I skinned the rabbits carefully, but couldn't work out what he was doing.  
            "What's that?" I asked eventually. Brom glanced up, and I nodded to his hands. In response he held it up, and the leather rippled as it unfolded itself.  
            "Dragon saddle," he grunted, and I saw it at once, the straps suddenly making sense.  
            "Impressive," I said, but didn't comment further. I would have to watch my tongue around Brom, lest I slip and blow his cover. He clearly didn't want Eragon to know his past, and although I didn't know or care why, it might become useful later. I'd only just finished cleaning the rabbits, with Saphira tidying up for me, when Brom grunted in satisfaction. I watched with interest as Eragon helped him put the saddle on to check the fit. Brom made a couple of small adjustments, then stood back as Saphira twisted her neck around to nose at the leather.  
            "You did a good job," Eragon said, though there was a reluctance in his voice. Brom grunted, then glanced around. I dropped my gaze at once, admonishing myself. My expression had been too unguarded. But when I looked back up, the pair was taking the saddle off again.  
            _Aren't you going to try it out?_ Saphira asked, the slightly hint of disappointment in her tone.  
            _Maybe tomorrow,_ Eragon said reluctantly, _it's too late now._ I rolled my eyes as I glanced away. There was still light in the sky, Eragon was just making excuses, though having seen the blood dripping down his thighs, having felt his pain, I couldn't really blame him. Dinner was faster than the previous evening. I donated one of the rabbits to another stew, and sat close to the fire, ripping the other into pieces and roasting them on the end of a stick. It took a bit of guesswork to get it balanced the right distance from the flames, something I'd never been particularly good at. It took four pieces that were charred on the outside but raw in the middle before I found a spot that worked, propping the stick up on a pair of rocks, turning it every few seconds while eating one handed.  
            "Will we leave tomorrow?" Brom asked Eragon, who didn't look up.  
            "There's no reason to stay," he replied shortly.  
            "I suppose not," Brom ceded. "Eragon, I am sorry about how everything turned out. I never wished for this to happen, and your family did not deserve such a tragedy. If there was anything I could do to reverse it, I would." I held my silence, eyes flicking between them. Eragon's mouth was shut just as firmly as mine. Our eyes met once, though he refused to look at Brom, who eventually sighed. "We're going to need horses."  
            "You two might, but I have Saphira." I agreed with him, but Brom shook his head.  
            "It'll be safer if we stay together. There isn't a horse alive that can outrun a flying dragon, and riding is faster than walking." At one point, I might have objected to this claim. I'd once thought there was nothing faster than Nara, so many times it had felt like she was flying, but having been carried across half the valley in Saphira's claws, I had revised my understanding of speed.  
            "But that'll make it harder to catch the Ra'zac," Eragon protested. "On Saphira I could probably find them in a day or two. It'll take much longer on horses, even if we do manage to overtake their lead."  
            "That's a chance you'll have to take if I'm to accompany you," Brom said.  
            "Fine," Eragon grumbled, "we'll get horses. But you'll have to buy them. I don't have any money, and I don't want to steal again. It's wrong."  
            "That depends on your point of view," Brom objected lightly, and I couldn't stop a smile flickering over my face. "But you need to remember the Ra'zac are the king's servants. They will be aided and protected wherever they go, even more so once Galbatorix learns of your existence."  
            "Why?"  
            "You're a dragon rider, Eragon," I spoke up, surprising them both. "Nothing is going to be more important to the king than making sure you either end up on his side, or dead."  
            "Toren's right," Brom said, after a slight pause. "Every day you evade the Ra'zac, every day you grow stronger outside his control is another day you could join his enemies, and he'll become more desperate. We'll have to be careful, or you could easily turn from the hunter to the hunted." Eragon didn't reply, fiddling with his hands and not looking at either of us. "Enough talk," Brom said, his voice a little softer. "It's late. We can say more tomorrow." With that, he stood up, moved away from the fire and lay down. Eragon glanced over at him, then back down at the ground.  
            "You okay?" I asked him softly, and he nodded, but still didn't move. "Go to sleep, Eragon. It'll keep till the morning." Eragon sighed, nodded again and turned away. I was left alone, tending to the last few bits of rabbit. Once they'd cooked, I banked the fire, turning the world dark, and wrapped the chunks of meat up before I lay down, staring up at the stars for a minute before turning onto my side, imagining a warm back pressed against mine as I closed my eyes.

 

Again, I was the first to wake the next morning, though thankfully not from a nightmare this time. The dawn was grey and overcast, and I didn't like the look of it at all. All I could do was hope there was no more snow. After a couple of minutes huddling under my blanket, wondering if I could get away with going back to sleep, I sighed and got up. Brom stirred as I got to my feet, and I nudged Eragon awake with my toes, whilst poking Saphira with my mind. We wolfed down a quick breakfast before preparing to leave. Eragon strapped the saddle onto Saphira, and then tied Misery onto her back as well, though I noticed he kept his bow and quiver on the side of his pack. I fingered the hilt of my own sword, considering. A farmer's boy, Eragon had probably never used a sword before in his life. It was an odd idea to me, but I didn't mention it as we set off back towards the farm, Saphira taking to the skies.  
            We passed the ruined remains of the farm quickly, though Eragon hesitated as he looked over the rubble before turning away. The sun rose on our left as we headed south, setting a quick pace. I welcomed the exercise, relishing in the feeling of moving again, of finally going somewhere.  
            "Can you use that?" Brom's voice interrupted my thoughts. I looked round, and was surprised to see he was looking at me. He nodded to the sword that I was still fiddling with. Without thinking, I gripped the hilt a little tighter.  
            "A bit," I said warily, but he nodded, seemingly satisfied. We walked in silence for a while longer. I was vaguely aware of Saphira's presence, far off to the west, among the mountains. She moved far faster than we did, racing ahead, circling back behind, sometimes stopping and waiting, or just heading off further west on her own.  
            "So what exactly can dragons do?" Eragon asked, after a period of silence. "You said you know something of their abilities." Brom laughed softly, though the sound still made me look round, wary for other people. After so long hiding, it felt odd to travel in the open, just strolling down the middle of the road.  
            "It's a pitiful amount compared to what I would like to know," Brom began, and I had to work not to snort in derision. "Your question is one people have been trying to answer for centuries," he continued, oblivious, "so understand that what I tell you is by its very nature incomplete. Dragons have always been mysterious creatures, though maybe not on purpose.  
            "Before I can truly answer your question, you need a basic education on the subject of dragons. It's hopelessly confusing to start in the middle of such a complex topic without understanding the foundation on which it stands." I caught myself nodding along to his words, and stopped quickly. He was right though. My father had often said similar things about swordplay whenever one of his new recruits got ideas too quickly.  
            ' _You need to know how to hold the sword before you can swing it,_ ' he would say to them, causing crestfallen looks. I smiled at the memory. The men he'd trained had been dismayed whenever I had been included in their lessons. They looked at me, a mere boy in their eyes, sometimes half their ages, and they had doubted me. I'd proved them wrong time and time again, sparring with them, demonstrating a new move or technique with my father. It never took more than a day for their derisive glances to become nods of respect, which I always returned.  
            "I'll begin with the life cycle of dragons, and if that doesn't wear you out, we can continue onto another topic." Brom was as good as his word, though I only half listened to his lectures, which were constantly interrupted by Eragon's questions. I paid a little more attention when Brom began to talk about the techniques one used when either attacking from a dragon, or when fighting one, but for the most part I let my mind wander, and there was only one place it wandered to. So I spent the day trying to think up ways I would be able to find my father and Murtagh.  
            The first thing I would need to find out was whether or not they'd actually gotten out of Uru'baen, but I really didn't want to go back to the city myself. There were too many people there who could recognise me. Dras-Leona might be the best bet. I'd passed through it on my way out; perhaps they had too. Or, I frowned, picturing the map that had hung on the wall, they could have gone north first, to Bullridge. I frowned as I walked. Bullridge was smaller than Dras-Leona, there would be less chance of anyone there hearing of their flight, whether it had been successful or not. That made Dras-Leona my best starting point, though once there, I wasn't sure how I would be able to find out any news. But there were many leagues between myself and the city. I had plenty of time to figure out a plan.

 

Evening fell faster than I'd expected, the sky darkening quickly as we found a secluded hollow. I felt Saphira approaching from the west as I was feeding twigs to the start of a fire when Eragon suddenly spoke up.  
            "Who was the Rider that owned Misery?" he asked, and I looked up at once, my breath catching in my throat.  
            "A mighty warrior," Brom answered, "who was much feared in his time, and held great power."  
            "What was his name?"  
            "I'll not say." I was on my feet before I even realised I'd moved. Both Brom and Eragon started at my sudden movement, but I didn't look at either of them as I walked away.  
            "Toren? Where are you going?" Eragon called after me.  
            "To piss. Do you want to watch?" It was a poor lie, my voice hard and shaking, but they let me go, which was all I'd wanted. I walked until I couldn't hear Brom's deceitful explanation before I sank to my knees. Eragon should know whose blade he was carrying, Brom had no right to keep that from him, especially given the history of the man. Shaking, a snarl on my face, I pressed both my fists into the ground so I wouldn't use them.

 

The sky was completely dark when I made my way back through the trees, honing in on Saphira's presence. Brom was whittling two long sticks, and Eragon was sitting against Saphira's belly. He looked up as I emerged from the clearing, and pointed silently to a bowl left beside the fire. I nodded in thanks as I picked up the stew, retreating to the edge of the clearing and sitting with my back against a tree, eyes firmly on my dinner. The silence prevailed for several minutes, until Brom stood up and launched one of the sticks towards Eragon. I recognised it as it sailed through the air as a crude imitation of a sword, not as refined as the ones Murtagh and I had used when we were much younger, but cleverly done on such short notice.  
            "Defend yourself!" barked Brom as he moved to the side, away from the fire. Eragon followed him, but more slowly, a slight smirk playing around his mouth.  
            _The idiot thinks he's got a chance,_ I shook my head at his naive confidence.  
            _He might have one,_ Saphira pointed out, and I jumped a little at her voice. _He's young, and Brom is not._ I didn't say anything to that, but I sat forwards a little, eyes narrowed as I watched the pair approach each other.  
            Brom moved first. He whipped his fake sword round the side, landing a hard blow on Eragon's ribs that he was too slow to block. It was clear that Eragon had never held a sword before in his life; his footwork was sloppy and haphazard, his movements jerky and more instinctive than planned. His response was good though. He lunged forwards, not getting his feet quite far apart enough to get any real power, but still fast in the movement. Brom parried the blow easily, knocking Eragon's stick away with no effort at all. Eragon tried again, feigning with a strike towards Brom's head then changing direction and aiming for his side, hoping to strike Brom's ribs the same way Brom had hit his. Brom's stick was already there to block the blow, and the sound of wood on wood resonated through the camp.  
            "Improvisation—good!" Brom said. He took a step back, disengaging, then whipped his arm through the air faster than I could see. Eragon never stood a chance. The wooden sword hit the side of his head with a crack that echoed around us, and he dropped like a stone.  
            "What are you doing?!" I exclaimed, jumping angrily to my feet as I strode across the clearing. Brom retreated lazily before my advance. "What did you do that for?" I snarled as I crouched over Eragon, turning him over and raking my fingers through his hair, checking for a wound.  
            "What?" Brom asked.  
            " _What_?" I imitated him. "He's never held a sword before in his life! Would it kill you to pull your blows a little?" There was blood on Eragon's head; the wooden sword had cut him, and I could feel the start of an impressive lump.  
            "A real enemy wouldn't soften his blows, and neither will I," Brom said. I shot him a look of deepest disgust. With a sigh, I pulled back both of Eragon's eyelids, checking his pupils were the same size. Footsteps were the only warning I got. I looked back over my shoulder and leapt to my feet, but was too slow to catch Brom's arm as he swung a pot of half-melted snow over Eragon, who came round at once, spluttering as he sat up.  
            "Oh, for—"  
            "See, he's fine," Brom said. I scowled as I turned my back on him, crouching in front of Eragon.  
            "Are you okay?" A groan was the only response I got as Eragon's eyes roved around, unfocused. "How do you feel?"  
            "Dizzy," Eragon muttered. "What happened?"  
            "No-one ever taught your storyteller to pull his hits," I said. Eragon blinked a few more times, then held out a hand. I rose to my feet and grasped it, pulling him up. He swayed a little but remained upright, and his gaze went past me to Brom. Letting go, I moved back to my side of the fire, taking my place against the same tree as I watched them both.  
            "You didn't have to do that," Eragon said, and there was a hint of anger in his tone that I approved of. Brom raised an eyebrow.  
            "Should I pander to your incompetence just so you'll feel better?" He picked up the stick Eragon had dropped and held it out. "Now, defend yourself." I opened my mouth, then closed it again, hoping. Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head slowly, and I smiled in approval.  
            "Forget it; I've had enough." He turned away. I opened my mouth to shout a warning, but Brom was too quick. I'd barely drawn in breath when the stick whacked solidly across Eragon's back.  
            "Never turn your back on the enemy!" Brom growled, tossing the stick at Eragon and advancing. I was on my feet again, hand on the hilt on my sword, ready to jump forwards as Eragon retreated.  
            "Pull your arms in," Brom shouted, over the clack of the wooden swords. "Keep your knees bent." I'd hesitated for too long; Eragon was back in the fight, actually doing pretty well, though I suspected Brom was now trying to teach him properly. But I didn't relax my stance, even when my suspicions were confirmed as Brom stopped to show Eragon how to pivot away from a blow without getting stabbed in the side. To his credit, Eragon learned quickly, but he never held off Brom for more than a few blows.  
            Not until the pair had finished, and Eragon had flopped down beside Saphira did I release my sword. I stared at Brom while Saphira laughed at her rider. Eragon had rolled over and gone to sleep, Saphira lying her head down next to him, before I moved, stalking straight across the clearing.  
            "We need to talk," I said stiffly as I passed Brom without pausing. I didn't bother looking back to see if he was following; I could hear his footsteps a few metres behind me. I walked until we were well out of earshot of the others, before I rounded on him, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.  
            "He's fine," Brom said exasperatedly, before I could speak. "No permanent harm, no prob—"  
            "Why won't you tell him it's Morzan's sword?" I interrupted, and his mouth snapped shut at once.  
            "What makes you say that?" he said slowly. I snorted in disgust and he scowled. "There's no reason to tell him," Brom told me brusquely. "It would only distract him, as you would have heard me say if you hadn't stormed off earlier." His eyes suddenly sharpened, and he took half a step backwards. "What's your mother's name?"  
            "Fern," I said shortly, knowing what he was thinking. "And on a related subject, why are you pretending to be a storyteller?"  
            "How do you know I'm not?" he challenged me, but it was a weak argument, and he knew it. I gave him a look.  
            "Everyone thinks you're dead," I said, after a slight pause. "I thought your name was just a coincidence, but it's not. You know too much, and no storyteller would have had that sword." Brom looked at me shrewdly, assessing.  
            "Say you're right, so what?"  
            "So, nothing," I said bluntly. "But Eragon will find out someday, provided he lives long enough."  
            "Fine. Anything else?"  
            "Yeah, stop hitting him on the head."  
            "I see. Any particular reason?"  
            "Because he'll end up more useless than a vegetable pie." I walked straight past him, back to the campsite, and lay down with my back to the fire. I didn't hear him return, and I slept with my hand wrapped even tighter around my blade than normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Red's 2009 album. Infinite thanks once again to onoheiwa, my wonderful beta, for helping me whip this into shape.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, comments make my day.


	7. Two of a Kind

The silence the next morning was glacial. Brom and I didn’t even look at each other while we ate a quick breakfast and set out as the sun rose. Our breath misted in the air as we walked down the road, making good progress, and within an hour the road had widened considerably, and I could make out distant wisps of smoke in the sky.  
            “You’d better tell Saphira to fly ahead and wait for us on the other side of Therinsford. There are too many people here who could notice her if we’re not careful,” Brom told Eragon.  
            “Why don’t you tell her yourself?” Eragon challenged him. He seemed to be in almost as bad of a mood as we were, not that I really blamed him, having seen the bruises covering his arms this morning.  
            “It’s considered bad manners to interfere with another’s dragon,” Brom said, his tone stiff with exasperation.  
            “You didn’t have a problem with it in Carvahall,” Eragon pointed out, though his eyes flicked to me as he spoke. I looked away, pulling my mind away from Saphira uneasily.  
            “I did what I had to,” Brom said, which made Eragon scowl, but he relayed the message to Saphira anyway. Despite the distance I tried to put between us, his words still echoed faintly in my mind as well. Glancing up, I squinted into the sun, picking out the small blue speck that wheeled off to the west before heading south. I tensed, half expecting Eragon to confront me then about Saphira, but he held his tongue, eyes ahead as signs of the approaching village began to creep up around us. The ruts in the road had deepened, and we passed frequent tracks off both sides, leading to farms in the distance.  
            The village itself was larger than Carvahall, but not as well planned, with houses scattered randomly around. Even some distance away, I could see that the centre would be practically a warren, the rooftops close together, but without any straight gaps for roads.  
            “What a mess,” Eragon said, in mild disgust, and I grinned as I looked away, though I’d been thinking much the same.  
            “It’s ugly, if nothing else,” Brom agreed mildly, squinting a little into the sun. With the village in sight, we picked up the pace a little more, and the sound of rushing water greeted us, the Anora River winding back into sight, running between us and the town. Here, the churning waters had cut a steep bank, and a stout bridge spanned the gap, the stones crumbling and worn with age, but still strong. I lengthened my stride a little, eager to cross, but as I drew ahead, a short man with dirty hair stepped out suddenly from behind a bush.  
            I reacted instinctively, without thought or pause. My sword sang as I ripped it free of its sheath, the steel glinting fiercely in the sun as the tip came to rest, perfectly still, in the air inches from his throat. The small man’s eyes bulged, going crossed as he tried to focus on the point, his mouth snapping shut over crumbling teeth. For a second, none of us moved, then Brom stepped forwards with a scowl, slapping my blade down with the flat of his palm, shooting me a look.  
            “Sorry,” I said gruffly, “roads aren’t as safe as they used to be. Can’t be too careful.” The man grunted, his eyes flicking over the three of us.  
            “Aye, that they aren't,” he said. His voice was slightly muffled, thickened by a rough accent, as if he had trouble remembering which words he’d planned to use. “That’s why you’ve gotta pay,” he continued, gesturing to the bridge behind him, though his eyes darted to my blade again, “stops people planning nasty stuff from getting into town, y’know.” I stared at him, watching his chest swell with pride, and tried to contain my sniggers.  
            “Of course,” Brom said courteously and I stared at him, “you do the town a great service. How much?”  
            “Six crowns,” the bridge-keeper said. I was ready to laugh and push past him, and Eragon clearly felt the same, opening his mouth to argue. But Brom shot us both looks and pulled out a purse. I watched in disbelief as he counted out the coins and handed them over.  
            “Thank’ee very much,” the bridge-keeper said, grinning broadly as he stepped aside. Brom nodded, smiling as he made to move past, but stumbling on the rough road. I lunged forward to catch him, but he’d already grabbed hold of the bridge-keeper’s arm to steady himself.  
            “Watch it!” he snarled, all pretence of friendliness forgotten as he ripped himself free.  
            “Sorry,” Brom apologised, regaining his footing before continuing over the bridge. Eragon and I followed in silence, though he shot a nasty glance at the bridge-keeper as he sidled back into the bushes.  
            “Why didn’t you haggle?” Eragon exclaimed, as soon as the bridge was behind us and the man out of earshot. “He skinned you alive, ‘keeping the town safe’, no way! He’s probably cheating everyone he can that comes through.”  
            “Probably,” Brom agreed, as I slid my sword away.  
            “Then why did you pay him?” I asked.  
            “Because you can’t argue with all the fools in the world,” Brom said, his eyes fixed on me. “Sometimes it’s easier to let them think they’re getting their way, then trick them when they’re not paying attention.” Brom held out his hand, letting the sunlight glint off a pile of coins in his hand.  
            “You cut his purse,” Eragon said incredulously. Despite Brom’s veiled threat, I couldn’t help grinning as I looked away. The old Rider was wilier than I’d expected. There was a sudden howl of anguish from the other side of the river, and I smothered a snigger as we entered Therinsford proper.  
            “And I’d guess he just found out. If you see any watchmen, tell me,” Brom said, his eyes sharp as we passed into the shadows of the buildings.  
            “I doubt he’d tell them anyway. They’d want to know where he got the money, and however fast of a liar he might be, he wasn’t doing anything remotely official,” I snorted, and Brom hummed a little in acquiescence before grabbing a passing boy on the shoulder.  
            "Where can we buy horses?" he asked, holding up a small coin to catch the light. The boy eyed us warily, his gaze flicking to the money, then pointed off to the left, where the roof of a barn was just visible over the tops of the houses. Brom nodded his thanks and flipped the coin into the air. The boy snatched it with a grin and raced off again, disappearing along the twisting alleyways.  
            The doors of the barn, when we finally left the warren of the town behind, stood open, and I breathed in the familiar smell of horses as we entered, passing two long rows of stalls, where bright, inquisitive eyes watched our progress towards the back of the barn, where a man was grooming a stunning white stallion. He looked up as we approached, putting down the brush as he waved us over.  
            "That's a beautiful animal," Brom said, his eyes raking the stallion.  
            "Yes indeed. His name's Snowfire. Mine's Haberth." Haberth shook hands with Eragon, Brom and finally reached me, but I was still watching Snowfire, tracing the slightly familiar shape of his head.  
            "He's not from Lord Gideon's estate, is he?" I asked, nodding at the horse.  
            "Good eye," Haberth grunted, looking at me in surprise. Brom and Eragon were wearing similar expressions. "His sire was on the estate, but before Gideon's time." I nodded absently. No doubt Gideon's horses had some of the same bloodlines. I tried not to imagine what Gideon's face would have looked like when his father sold Snowfire's sire. The breeding was practically oozing out of him, yet here he was, hidden away up here in the north.  
            "So, what can I help you with?" Haberth asked, when I didn't say anything more.  
            "We need three horses, with full tack," Brom said, "good animals, mind, we'll be doing a lot of travelling." The man's eyes glazed over slightly as he looked past us, down the line of stalls, apparently doing a mental check.  
            "Don't have many animals like that," he said after a moment, "most of the demand round here is for cart horses and the like. The ones I do have aren't cheap."  
            "Price is no object. I'll take the best you have," Brom said stubbornly, and Haberth nodded silently. Moving past us, he walked away, down the line of stalls. Brom and Eragon waited by Snowfire, but I traced his steps, wandering idly down the line of stalls. Haberth was right. Most of the animals had the strong, stocky legs of cart horses. One of them, a tall grey horse, with strong shoulders pushed his way forwards as I passed, and I paused with a smile to rub his nose, until the sound of hooves made me turn. Haberth was walking back towards us, leading a bay horse.  
            "This fella's a bit spirited, but with some firm handling, he'll be fine," Brom nodded, watching the pair approach. I was watching the bay's long legs, noting the way he picked up his feet, and jumped, my whole body tensing, when another horse lunged forwards in a stall two away from me, teeth flashing in the air towards the bay, who shied sideways. Haberth scowled back at the biter as he halted the bay in front of Brom and Eragon. I took a step to the side, watching the golden horse retreat into his stall, ears still flattened back.  
            "What's his story?" I asked Haberth, taking a cautious step closer, though careful to keep out of range, should the horse lunge again. Haberth grunted.  
            "Him? Right piece of work. Grumpiest animal I ever met, but a dream to ride."  
            "May I?" I asked, gesturing closer.  
            "Sure, just watch your fingers," Haberth grunted, turning away, and stumping off down the stalls again, leaving Eragon holding the bay. I moved along until I was right in front of the stall, eyes fixed on the hooves of the horse half-hidden in shadow at the back. The dim light on his dun coat made it look darker than it really was, as if the animal was made of burnished gold. Clicking my tongue gently, I took another step forward, and he made his move. Lunging forwards, his hooves clattered across the floor, throwing up shavings as he skidded to a halt, neck thrust out, head held high above me. I didn't flinch as he tossed his angry head, his black mane rippling, but his teeth stayed hidden this time, and he eventually grew still. Gently, I blew out, letting my breath tickle across his nose. His nostrils twitched, then he blew back, though with slight caution.  
            "What's the verdict?" Brom asked, and I glanced back to find him watching me closely.  
            "Nothing but a few bad manners," I said, taking a few steps closer to the animal and raising a hand to his neck. He snorted a little, and for a moment I thought he would try to bite me, but eventually he just turned his head the other way, ignoring my palm as it came to rest on his shoulder. I took the opportunity to run my eyes over the rest of his body. He was, without doubt, a fine animal, with good strong legs and hindquarters. Looking back to Brom, I nodded, just as Haberth came back round the corner, leading a roan mare. His eyes immediately found me, and he nodded approvingly.  
            "He's a grumpy sod, but other than that..." Haberth shrugged.  
            "We'll take him," Brom said, turning away and watching the roan mare with a slightly more doubtful expression. "She seems quiet."  
            "Aye, very docile, but a good runner,"  
            "Mmm..." Brom glanced back over his shoulder. "What will you take for Snowfire?" Haberth's face fell as he looked at the white stallion.  
            "I'd rather not sell him. Best I've ever owned. I've been hoping to bred from him, get a whole bloodline, y'know."  
            "If you were willing to part with him," Brom pushed, "how much would it all cost me?" I watched Haberth look from the bay standing by Eragon, to the grumpy dun behind me, to Snowfire.  
            "Two hundred twenty crowns, no less," Haberth said eventually, smiling apologetically, sure in the knowledge that no-one would pay so much. I agreed with him, expecting Brom to accept the roan. But he did not. Pulling out a purse, Brom began to count out coins. We all watching him in silence, Haberth's face flickering between incredulity and despair.  
            "Will this do?" Brom asked. Haberth looked from the pile of coins, to Snowfire, and back again.  
            "Aye," he sighed eventually, "though it goes against my heart. He's yours." Haberth tied the roan to one of the stalls, and stumped up the aisle, taking the bay's rope from Eragon as he passed. "Boy," he said, glancing back to me, "bring him up. But keep him away from the other two." His regret was so palpable, I didn't bother correcting his mistake. He could call me 'boy' if he wanted to. I unhooked the rope across the front of the dun's stall, winding my hand into his mane and leading him up towards Haberth, giving the roan a wide berth. "That's his," Haberth grunted, pointing to the tack on the very end of the back wall. I pulled the dun after me, away from the others, and began to tack him up in silence. Haberth was faster than me, sorting out both the other two, and handing the bay's reins to Eragon, who looked a little over-whelmed, but took them. Haberth hesitated before Brom, stroking Snowfire's nose.  
            "I'll take care of him," Brom promised gently, "as if he'd be sired by Gildintor himself." Haberth bowed his head slightly, finally holding out the reins.  
            "Your words gladden me. I hope no misfortune falls upon you, if only for Snowfire's sake."  
            "I'll look after him," Brom assured him, turning, and leading the white stallion away. Eragon and I followed. At the doors of the barn, I glanced back. Haberth was standing, watching us go and looking a little lost. The dun horse took advantage of my moment of inattention and lunged sideways, trying to nip Eragon's bay on the shoulder. Scowling, I pulled his head away, then swapped sides, so I was walking between the two horses.  
            "Here," Brom said, causing me to look over as he handed Snowfire's reins to Eragon. "Go to the other side of Therinsford and wait for me there."  
            "Why?" Eragon asked, but Brom had already disappeared back into the town. Slightly bewildered, Eragon looked round at me, but I just shrugged, and kept walking, and he followed me. It only took us a few minutes to skirt round the edge of Therinsford, and rejoin the road on the other side. I kept walking until we were a good distance away, but still within sight of the last buildings before coming to a halt, Eragon stopping beside me, forcing me to pull the dun back again as his head snaked towards Snowfire's flank. We waited in silence for a couple of minutes, each lost in our own thoughts, before I shook myself, and shrugged off my pack.  
            "You can put your stuff in the saddlebags," I told Eragon, before following my own advice, carefully packing my things away.  
            "What's that?" Eragon asked curiously, and I looked up to find him staring at the bow in my hands. I frowned at him.  
            "It's a bow," I said, a little confused.  
            "But it's too small," he objected, "and it's curved." With a grin, I passed it over to him.  
            "It's recurved," I said, "it straightens when you draw it. Makes it powerful without being too big."Eragon pulled back on the string experimentally, watching as the wood flexed, then releasing the tension and handing it back to me.  
            "Are you a good shot?" he asked, and I shrugged.  
            "Good enough to feed myself, just about," I said, "but I'm not worth much on a target range, or in a fight. Better with a sword." Eragon scowled at the mention, glancing back towards the town.  
            "I'm rubbish," he said, and I grinned while he wasn't looking.  
            "You're doing well," I told him, "you've only just started, and Brom is very good."  
            "Are you as good as him?"  
            "I have no desire to find out," I lied.

 

Brom returned from the town not long afterwards, his face grim as he strode down the road towards us. I stood up straight, watching his approach, though still keeping an eye on the dun horse, who was eyeing the other two with his ears back. Brom walked past us, reclaiming Snowfire's reins as he led the way down the road, and Eragon and I followed him in expectant silence. Only once Therinsford was hidden behind the trees did Brom speak.  
            "The Ra'zac definitely passed this way. They stopped to pick up horses, like we did. I was able to find a woman who saw them, and she said that they galloped out of town like demons fleeing a holy man."  
            "How long ago?" I asked.  
            "Two days," Brom said. Eragon cursed under his breath, but didn't say anything else as Brom mounted Snowfire. I glanced at him before turning to the dun, pulling down the stirrups, and hopping twice on one leg before pushing myself up onto his back. He sidestepped a couple of times, but quickly quietened as I took up the reins. Eragon was far more awkward with his ascent, scrambling clumsily up onto the bay, wincing as he did so.  
            "This isn't going to do the same thing to my legs as riding Saphira, is it?" he asked in trepidation, and I grimaced in sympathetic remembrance.  
            "It shouldn't," Brom said. "How do they feel now?"  
            "Not too bad, but I think they could open up again."  
            "We'll take it easy," promised Brom, nudging Snowfire forwards, giving Eragon a few pointers as we set out. I kept the dun over to one side of the road as we walked, to stop him trying to bite the other two. Haberth had been right; other than his bad manners, he was a wonderful ride, responsive and alert under the guidance of my hands and knees. I was looking down, trying to lengthen my stirrups without letting the dun wander close enough to strike out at the other horses, when Eragon spoke.  
            "Who's Gideon?" he asked. I looked up, to find them both watching me.  
            "Huh? Oh," I hesitated, still fiddling with the leather straps, wondering how much I should say. "He's a noble, his family breeds horses."  
            "And you know him?" Eragon seemed torn between disbelief and incredulity. I shrugged.  
            "Not well. He came into the city a few times, but his estate was a little way outside Uru'baen."  
            "You're from Uru'baen." Brom's tone was full of suspicion and I scowled as I looked across, taking in Eragon's wary expression.  
            "Yeah. I am," I said shortly.  
            "Did you ever see the king?" Eragon blurted out, seemingly before he could stop himself. I snorted.  
            "Heavens, no." There was a slight pause, and I could almost feel the distrust rolling off Brom, but I looked straight back at him.  
            "Did Gideon teach you about horses?" Eragon broke the tension, and I laughed a little.  
            "Hardly. I only met him a couple of times. No, my father got me to help out in the stables a bit, and I picked up some stuff there," I explained, "mostly by finding out how to do it wrong. Got thrown a couple of times, and trodden on more than I care to remember."  
            "Did you have your own horse?"  
            My hands clenched for a moment on the reins. "Technically, she wasn't mine, but there was one mare I always rode," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. _Nara_. I could still remember her being led away. I looked down, avoiding Eragon's eyes, and he fell silent.  
            "What did your father do? Before you left the city?" I scowled a little, refusing to meet Brom's sharp gaze. _What is this, question time?_  
            "He was a soldier," I said eventually. It wasn't a lie; my father had been a soldier, but the half-truth still stung me.  
            "Did he teach you how to fight? You reacted pretty quickly back there by the bridge."  
            "Yeah," I said, without looking at either of them. "He taught me a bit." They both let the questions drop at that, Brom continuing to coach Eragon, though with far more patience than he'd ever displayed when they fought. I wondered idly if Brom had struggled with horses when he'd first encountered them. The dun tossed his head, prancing a little, and I sighed, eyeing the road ahead, which was quickly taking us away from the fields, back into wilder country.  
            "I'm gonna go on ahead, see what he can do," I said, nodding to the impatient animal, and Brom nodded, though I could feel his eyes boring into my back as I nudged the dun forward, letting him spring into an easy trot. I rose up and down in the saddle, the familiar motion reassuring to my muscles. We passed huge bramble patches, their snarled branches trying to sneak out into the path, and rounded a corner. I grinned at the sight of the long straight path, and sat deep into the saddle, nudging the dun again. He responded eagerly, leaping forwards into a canter, and I laughed aloud. Haberth had been right, he was wonderful to ride, his strides smooth and even, eating up the ground. I rose up onto the balls of my feet, leaning forwards a little and he went even faster, his black mane rippling over my hands. The corner came up too fast for my liking, but I eased the dun back to a trot, then a walk, letting him stretch his neck out, blowing at the ground.  
            "Good boy," I murmured, rubbing his neck. "Better away from the others, huh? Not such a grumpy-guts." He snorted, and I laughed, pulling his head up as I nudged him into a trot, looking ahead to where the cleft in the mountains lead out onto the plain beyond. To the right was the looming shadow of Utgard, standing like a beacon of black rock, and I pulled the dun to a halt as I gazed up at it, but he tossed his head, pulling my attention away, and I let him walk on again, soon moving into a trot as we followed the road around Utgard. Every now and then I looked back, sometimes picking out Brom and Eragon on the road far behind me, but most of the time they were hidden by the landscape.

 

I crested the hill of the mountain pass mid-afternoon, and came to a halt, staring out across the world. Somewhere out there was my father, and Murtagh. All I had to do was find them. The dun tossed his head, pulling at the bit, eager to move on, but I held him back, twisting in my saddle to look behind me. It would be so easy to just carry on, to keep going on my own. Glancing up, it took me only a second to locate the tiny speck that was Saphira in the sky, so far above me. Transferring the reins to my right hand, I pulled up the left leg of my trousers, running my fingers over my burn as I thought. I hadn't made him any promises, I'd just said we were going in the same direction. Heaving a huge sigh, I sat up again, the dun instantly pricking up his ears, though he baulked a little as I pulled his head to the side. Only when we were a way from the path, out of easy sight, did I slip down from his back, tethering him lightly to a tree and letting his head drop down to graze as I pulled my sword from its sheath.

 

The sun was low in the sky when I heard their approach, the sound of hooves striking rock reaching my ears before their low voices. I was ready for them in seconds, splashing a bit of water over my short hair to dribble down my face and neck, sliding my sword away as I pulled myself back up onto the dun's back, patting his neck as I turned him back towards the road. By the time Brom and Eragon came into view, we were standing at the edge of the road, waiting. The dun pulled his ears back at the sight of the other horses, but I twitched the reins, and he lowered his head grudgingly. Brom's eyes were fixed on me as they drew level, and I returned the gaze steadily, but Eragon gasped as they crested the rise, his eyes sweeping over the plain, wonder clear on his face.  
            "It's so big," he breathed. "How far across is it?"  
            "Two or three days, to over a fortnight, depending on which direction you go," Brom said. "We'll wait until tomorrow to make the descent." I felt a flare of mild irritation. I'd assumed we would have gone further, or I could have been setting up camp this afternoon, between practising.  Brom lead the way off the trail, picking a path through the trees to eventually emerge by the Anora River, where we all dismounted, and began setting up camp.  
            "You should give him a name." I looked up to see Brom nodding at the bay horse Eragon had been riding, whose saddle Eragon was just pulling off. There was a slight pause as Eragon eyed the animal thoughtfully.  
            "Well," he said eventually, "I don't have anything as noble as Snowfire, but maybe this will do." With surprising gravitas, he placed a hand on the bay's neck. "I name you Cadoc. It was my grandfather's name, so bear it well."  
            "It's a name," I told him, amused, "not a lordship." Eragon blushed and scowled at the same time.  
            "What about yours?" he said, jerking his chin at the dun, his face still a little pink. I looked at the grumpy animal. It was a question I'd been pondering for most of the afternoon, and as we stared at each other, it was like the horse was daring me to pick wrongly.  
            "Samir," I said decisively, and his ears flickered. Any possible comments were lost as Saphira landed close by, making all three animals toss their head nervously. Cadoc shuffled around his picket, tail clamped down as he put as much distance as possibly between them, but Samir and Snowfire both held their ground, though neither of them looked particularly happy about it.  
            _How do the plains look?_ Eragon asked her.  
            _Dull,_ she replied, _nothing but rabbits and scrub in every direction._

 

After dinner, as the last of the light faded from the sky, Brom stood. Eragon barely caught the makeshift sword as it flew through the air towards his head. I scowled, but held my tongue as he groaned, but his complaints fell on deaf ears and he reluctantly got to his feet. I watched, my eyes following their every move as they danced, carefully cataloguing Brom's every move. They didn't spar for as long as last time, but there was still plenty of rough curses from Eragon as Brom's stick connected solidly with his arms, or legs, or ribs, or back. Yet, whether from luck, or Brom's restraint, he didn't take a single hit to the head. Other than a couple of bad decisions, he did reasonably well, though against Brom he looked like a child flailing around, and he threw down his stick in disgust when they finished, clearly aware of just how outmatched he was. Brom didn't turn away, instead reclaiming the stick from the ground and turning to face me.  
            "Your turn," he said grimly, throwing the stick through the air. Years of training made me step to the side, catching it neatly on the end, though I regretted it as Brom's gaze flared. Eragon had paused, looking back over his shoulder at us. I met Brom's stare with one of my own.  
            "I don't think so," I said. I didn't give him a chance to argue, snapping the stick over my knee and turning away. I listened to Eragon grumbling to Saphira about how I could get out of it when he couldn't as I drifted off to sleep, and I knew Brom wouldn't let me go so easily again.


	8. Sooner or Later

Though it was a struggle, I woke even earlier the next morning, when the eastern sky showed only the barest hint of light. In silence, I pushed to my feet, twirling my dirty knife between my fingers before slipping it away. I preferred sleeping with my sword in my hand, but with the other two watching I hadn't wanted to take it from Samir's saddle. Now though, in the predawn light, I carefully extracted the blade and slipped away through the trees. My session the previous afternoon had reminded me that I hadn't been working nearly enough. My father would have beaten me to a pulp on the training ground for my lack of discipline. Grimacing, I fell into a comfortable ready position. I would have taken a hundred humiliating defeats willingly if he'd been here with me.

            Half an hour or so later, when light was moving swiftly across the sky, I returned to the little camp, sitting with my back against a tree and glancing at the other two before pulling out a cloth. Clamping the point of my sword under my right foot, I leaned the blade against my left knee, running the cloth gently down the metal, tilting it to watch the faint light shine on the sliver steel, losing my thoughts in the familiar action.

            Brom woke first, moving so quietly I jumped a little when he stumped across my line of sight. He didn't speak to me, nor I to him, but I watched as he moved around the camp, packing up his things. His preparations woke Eragon, who yawned as he sat up, shaking out his arms.

            "You shouldn't sleep like that," I said. They both looked round at me, but I kept my eyes on the boy, ignoring the man's gaze.

            "Like what?" Eragon asked.

            "With your arm under your head."

            "Why not?"

            "It makes it go numb. If you need to get up quickly, to flee, or to fight, you don't want a dead limb," I explained. Their stares made me regret opening my mouth, and I looked away as I stood up and slid my sword back into its scabbard. I didn't say another word as we each munched on dried apple pieces while we eradicated all signs of the camp and tacked up the horses. It wasn't until we were ready to go that I faced Brom across the clearing. He felt my gaze at once, like he'd been waiting for it, and turned towards me.

            "Here," I said, flicking my wrist. He snatched the pouch out of the air, weighing it in his hand, head cocking to the side as he listened to the clinking coins inside. Eragon looked between us in confusion.

            "What's this for?" Brom said eventually, looking up at me.

            "Samir," I said, nodding my head towards the dun animal, who flicked his ears at the attention.

            "Why?" Brom asked, but I just shrugged, turning away. "Why?" he repeated, and I spun back to face him.

            "Because I won't be staying with you. If I get word of my father, even so much as a whisper, I'll be gone. And I won't want to hang around to pay my debts then," I snapped. Brom's eyes narrowed, even as Eragon's widened.

            "You really expect to find him?" Brom asked. My lip curled before I could stop it.

            "I will find him," I vowed, knowing in my heart that I spoke the truth. I turned my back to them and hopped up onto Samir's back, flicking the reins and turning him back towards the road without waiting for the others.

 

It wasn't long before I regretted taking the lead. The steep descent was not easy, the trail all but disappearing in places. Saphira remained overhead, since there was nowhere for her to hide, and she helped us, advising on possible routes down, but even she couldn't make the ground less treacherous. After a terrifying incident where Samir lost his footing and slid down several feet, I dismounted, leading the grumpy animal, dancing over the ground scattered with loose rocks, trying to find the best way down. I never looked back to see if the other two were following my path or forging their own, keeping my eyes ahead, and watching the bottom inch closer.

            It was midday by the time Samir and I plunged down the last few feet, jogging to a halt and staring out across the plain. I was sweating a little, despite the chill in the air. Eragon and Brom skidded down only a few seconds after me, coming to a halt beside me. Samir immediately snaked his head sideways, towards Snowfire.

            "Sam," I growled warningly, and he hesitated, but I could still see fire in his eyes, and pulled his head back towards me. I switched sides, putting myself between him and the other horses, something I'd have to start doing from habit if his manners didn't improve.

            After a short rest, we moved on, leaving the shadow of the mountains behind, following the trail until it split into three. Brom and Eragon promptly fell upon the different trails, looking for tracks, but I just stared off to the north, towards Ceunon. More than anything, I wanted to put my heels to Samir and charge off into the distance. I wanted to leave, to get away, to get out. I might have just missed my father and Murtagh. Maybe they got severely delayed, and were even now only a few days away from me, along this very road. But I didn't truly believe that, and I had to find them. I couldn't just leave without them, without knowing... Letting out a deep sigh, I resolutely turned my gaze away, focusing on Brom as he stood up, brushing off his hands.

            "It would appear they've gone to Yazuac," he said, frowning off into the distance.

            "Where's that?" Eragon asked, looking out across the plains in eerie imitation of him.

            "Due east. Four days, if all goes well. It's only a small village, situated by the Ninor River. There's no other water between here and there, we'll have to replenish our water-skins here." Brom led the way off the trail, down to the bank of the Anora where it curved off to the north. We watered the horses, filling our skins to bursting and drinking as much as we could. Saphira swooped down to join us, taking several long quaffs of the cool liquid. And then we set out.

***

It was a quiet afternoon. The wind whipped across the plains, the familiar breeze bringing an easy smile to my face. I kept pace with Brom and Eragon today, rather than going ahead, though Samir demanded to be allowed to run now and then. I always pointed him back the way we came before letting him go, so the other two didn't follow us. Eragon looked a little bit more comfortable on Cadoc than he had yesterday, but he wasn't nearly experienced enough to handle the horse if he tried to follow Sam on an extended canter.

            We camped in the open, since there were no trees around to shelter us. I tracked Saphira as she swooped down, landing easily in the open terrain just after we picketed the horses, all of whom promptly turned their backs to the wind. I stood, rubbing Samir's neck absently as Eragon tried to light a fire of scrub-brush. He made little progress, producing a few wisps of smoke and little else, finally allowing his frustration to get the better of him and standing up with a huff. I hesitated, and Brom shoved forwards to take the tinderbox.

            "It's this blasted wind," Eragon griped, and I grinned, but said nothing, moving forwards as Brom knelt, rearranging a few twigs before striking several sparks. More smoke was his only success, and he scowled.

            " _Fire!_ " he cursed, striking the flint again, and the pile burst into flames. I froze, staring at the flickering, dancing light. _Fire,_ he'd said, not the same way I would; he twisted the word, the same way he twisted _Misery_ , until the word was only just recognisable. "There we go," Brom said, satisfied, "must have been smouldering inside. I swallowed. He had called fire, and fire had come. Taking a shaky breath, I turned away before he could see how un-nerved I was.

            Brom and Eragon sparred again while I sat by the summoned fire, stirring the watery stew. The sight of them fighting reassured me. For all his mysteries, this was something where Brom was no different from anyone else. When they finished however, and Brom reclaimed Eragon's wooden sword, putting it down firmly beside him as we ate, his eyes fixed on me and I knew there was no getting out of it tonight. I'd defied Brom yesterday, and he had let me do so. Not again. Sure enough, as soon as we had both finished, Brom stood up, the swords in his hands. Eragon froze in trepidation, but he needn't have feared. He wasn't the target this time.

            "Get up," Brom said, his eyes fixed on me. I stared at him for as long as I dared. I did not look at Eragon, or Saphira, both watching us in silence and I could feel the echoes of their emotions, a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. Eventually I climbed to my feet, catching the stick as it flew through the air towards me. We both stepped to the side, putting some distance between us and the fire. I'd told Eragon the truth—I didn't know which of us was the better swordsman, but I had two advantages; first, I'd been watching Brom fight Eragon, studying his style, his moves, for several nights now; and second, Brom didn't know how good I was. I wasn't above using those advantages. So I stepped badly, carefully positioning my feet wrong, weighing the sword as if nervous, looking away from Brom, though never losing track of him. When Brom stepped forwards to attack, he did it in the same way he would with Eragon, a novice. I was not a novice. I danced sideways, spinning once and placing my feet properly this time. Whipping my sword round, I smacked his away, hitting near his grip so that his wrist twisted until he could no longer retain the grip. The stick went spinning away as I stepped again, bringing the stick up to point directly at the hollow of his throat. Eragon leapt to his feet, gawping at us, at me. I didn't look away from Brom, and he returned the stare with equal intensity. After three long seconds, I stepped backwards, withdrawing the stick, and putting a couple of long strides between us. Brom stared at me for another second, then retrieved his stick. As he came back towards me, I fell into a comfortable crouch, the position my father had drilled into me since I could walk. Brom's face twitched, and I wasn't sure if he wasn't to smile or snarl.

            This time, I attacked first, and he wasn't holding back anymore.

            I didn't have time to think; it was a dance as I hadn't felt in months, like when my father had taken up a sword against me himself. Brom was wickedly fast, and exceptionally skilled. But so was I. Even so, neither of us had the chance to land a blow until he surprised me with a quick jab towards my stomach. I drew back to avoid it, but my guard slipped and he whipped his stick around to hit mine in the same way I'd disarmed him. I released it at once, but even as he returned the sword to threaten me, I pulled the knife from my back, the metal cutting into the wood as I threw it away from me. An underhand move, perhaps, but if I'd learnt one thing in my years with the sword, it was to take any advantage. So I used the knife, keeping my defence just long enough to throw myself sideways, rolling head over heels on the ground to grab my stick, and come back to my feet and turn. He hadn't waited for me, and was inches away already. I raised both blades, wood and metal, to fend him off, and we fell apart. With a wicked grin, his stance shifted, and he changed his sword to his left hand. I hesitated. I was barely better than average with my left hand, never having taken to it, but fighting right-to-left was exceptionally awkward. Then again, I did have two weapons to his one. So I reaffirmed my preferred grip and dove forwards.

            It wasn't long before we changed from pretending to try to hack each other to pieces to showing off, trying to slip past the other's defences, and succeeding. Brom landed a solid hit on my right thigh, but I returned the favour with a slash across his left arm, forcing the sword back to his right hand. At first, I thought we were fairly evenly matched, but the longer we kept going, the better he got, seeming to fall back into rhythms half-forgotten. It became a very real possibility that he was better than me. Rather than let him prove it, I stepped back, and planted the tip of wooden sword on the ground, silently calling for a halt. Brom hesitated, then imitated me, nodding as he stepped back. We were both panting, though the wood was lighter than steel, and eyed each other with a new respect as we retreated back to the fire. Eragon's mouth was hanging open.

            "Careful," I said, between deep lungfuls of air, "your tongue's about to fall out." He snapped his mouth shut as I sat down, then lay back on the ground, stretching my arms above my head.

            "So." The finality in Brom's voice made me sigh, but I sat up to face him. "Who taught you to fight?"

            "My father," I admitted, working my wrists in circles.

            "What's his name?"

            "Tornac," I said, after the barest moment of hesitation. Brom's face gave nothing away.

            "Never heard of him," he said. I pushed down the wave of irrational anger.

            "I doubt he would have heard of a storyteller either," I said carefully. I wasn't the only one with secrets. And however much he tried to goad me, I knew one thing for sure; my father could have beaten Brom. Brom didn't rise to my bait, but sat, watching as I slipped my knife away, his eyes tracking the movement.

            "Before Therinsford, on the bridge..." he said slowly. I met his gaze, but didn't say anything. "What would have done, if you were on your own?" Pulling up my knees, I leaned forwards, stretching out my arms before letting my elbows rest on my legs and staring at him. My father had done things like this; given me situations and made me find a way out of them.

            "Am I still just planning on passing through, rather than staying?" I asked. Brom frowned, but nodded, and I shrugged. "I would probably have just pushed past him."

            "And if he fought back?" Brom pressed. I snorted.

            "We did see the same person, didn't we?"

            "You can't judge a fighter in one look."

            "You can if he looks like that."

            "Say it was someone different then," Brom changed tactic at once. "Someone who could fight, who was as good as you." I scowled.

            "Just spit it out. What do you really want to know?"

            "Would you have killed him?" Brom said harshly. Eragon drew in a short breath. I didn't breath at all as I blinked steadily

            "It wouldn't have come to that."

            "No?"

            "No!" I snapped. "If he was good enough to take me, I wouldn't have started the fight in the first place. I would have paid him and moved on through, or gone back, if I couldn't pay." There was a ringing silence.

            "Have you killed before?" Eragon asked, and I turned my weary gaze to him at last.

            "Where do you think the rabbits come from?" I jibbed, hoping he would drop it. He did not.

            "That's not what I meant," he snapped.

            "How old are you?" I asked.

            "Fifteen, not that it matters. Have you?" His face was a mixture of trepidation and defiance. I looked at him for a minute, but his jaw was set, and he didn't back down. I refused to look at Brom.

            "It's really none of your business," I said softly.

            "If the answer was 'no', you would have given it," Eragon said. I held his gaze for another second before I pushed to my feet and walked away. I slept away from the fire that night, on the other side of the horses, and it took me a long time to drift off, my thoughts full of a boy's scream, a splatter of blood, and a twisted pronunciation of _fire_.


	9. Questions from the Dead

I didn't speak to Brom or Eragon at all the next day, and they made no effort to start a conversation with me. In truth, I half expected them to try to leave without me, even lay pretending to be asleep to give them the chance, but although they exchanged many whispers, they dithered long enough to make it obvious they were waiting, so I rolled upright and made ready to depart. I rode ahead of them, feeling their suspicious eyes on my back, but refusing to turn and meet their looks. Their prodding the previous evening had awoken memories I normally tried to leave buried, but now that they'd been roused, I couldn't silence them. So, ignoring the stubborn silence behind me, I let the memory prickling at the edge of my mind come to the forefront.

 

_We'd been so young, younger than either of us realised. I was just beginning to think I could take on the world, that arrogant age when everything seems possible, when all my father's lessons on caution and consequence could be forgotten in a single game. Murtagh was never quite so innocent, but after a peaceful afternoon of exploring hidden corners of the city that only young boys could find, even his guard was down._

_As we ran the empty streets, racing each other and laughing like the children we pretended to be, neither of us was prepared. Even when most other people were already inside, shutters closed tight against the gathering chill, the city held no fear for us. We were untouchable, unstoppable, and stupid. I never saw where he came from. One minute we were alone, the next the space in front of us was blocked by a towering man, his huge shoulders seeming to take up all the space between the buildings. Murtagh ran straight into him, letting out a sharp cry of shock that was cut off by one enormous hand smothering him. I slipped as I tried to stop, my feet skidding out from under me and I went down hard, twisting madly to try and keep the pair in my sights, barely noticing the pain in my knees and elbow as I hit the cobblestones. Murtagh was struggling now, fighting as wildly as a cat, landing solid blows that my father would have been proud of, never forgetting himself, even in the moment of fear, but he was still a child, pitifully small against the grown man. I didn't stop to think. My little knife, kept sharp as my father had told me, was in my hand as I launched myself forwards before I'd even got my feet properly under me._

_My first stab went wild, thrown off by their struggles and my poor balance, but the slash across the man's arm was still enough to make him release Murtagh, who fell and scrambled backwards as the man turned towards me. My second stab went straight into the flesh of his neck. He staggered backwards, my blade leaving his body with a spray of blood that went everywhere, splattering my face and body. I barely even felt it, prowling round to stand between him and Murtagh as he went down, scrabbling at his own neck, choking as blood continued to flow out of him in violent spurts._

_Neither of us moved as he lay in a growing pool of his own blood, twitching for an eternity. Only when he was still did Murtagh shift, extracting himself carefully from under my legs and standing up, moving very slowly as he pulled me round to face him. I met his eyes, but didn't comprehend the look within them, or the words he said as he shook my shoulder. He had to drag me back home, pulling me along with a firm grip on my forearm, and I watched every shadow along the way, my knife still clutched tightly in my fingers. We didn't see anyone else until Murtagh knocked on a door, and my father opened it. He took in the sight of us, Murtagh with a growing bruise on his face, me covered in blood. Pulling us both inside, he shut the door quickly, pushing us towards chairs. Murtagh let go of my arm as he pushed me down, but I jerked as if stung, and grabbed his wrist again. We stared at each other for a moment before I blinked and released him as Father crouched down in front of us both._

_"What happened?" he asked seriously._

_Murtagh had told him, or rather, told him enough. He didn't seem able to find the words to say what I'd done, but he didn't need to. The bloody knife was still held fast in my hand, red droplets splattered all over my face. I could smell it in my nose, taste it in my mouth; the tang of death. Father sat back on his heels, his expression unreadable._

_"It's going to be okay," he said, and although I was too numb to understand the meaning of the words, I still knew them to be true. "Toren-" my name from his lips roused me as nothing else had, and I met his gaze "-stay here. Bar the door, and don't let anyone else in. You understand? No one." I nodded as he picked up his sword and strapped it on. "Come on, Murtagh, we need to get you back up to the citadel." Murtagh grimaced, but rose._

_"Tornac, I—" he began, but my father cut him off._

_"We'll talk about it tomorrow. For now, you're both safe, and that's what matters. Let's go." They both glanced at me once more before stepping out into the night. I stood and slipped the bar down into its grooves, then I waited, the knife clutched in my hand as I guarded the door. I didn't move until my father returned._

 

Samir stumbled over the ground as I blinked, the memory shattering as I righted myself, shaking off its cold clutches as I turned my attention back to my surroundings, and the horse beneath me. Saphira pressed towards me, feeling the change, but I hardened my thoughts with anger and she withdrew, though not before I felt her hurt at my harsh rejection. I sighed, but it was for the best—I couldn't risk her hearing Murtagh's name, and passing it on to Eragon and Brom.

            I didn't give in to the memory again, though I couldn't help the events that followed running through my mind. My father had returned after an indeterminable amount of time, with a patch of blood on his shirt. It was only when I saw the red stain on his chest that I released the knife. I'd cried as he helped me scrub all the blood off my face but he hadn't said a word, just holding me steady as I lost control.

            "What did I do?" I had whispered to the darkness as he sat beside me in my room.

            "What you had to," he'd replied firmly. "Murtagh is alive because of you." I'd been unable to reply and he'd squeezed my arm as he stood up and moved to the door. "Try to sleep," he'd told me.

            I swallowed, trying to focus on the sight of the empty landscape in front of me, pretending that it was only the wind that made my eyes sting. My father had been proof that the ability to kill and the ability to be gentle weren't mutually exclusive qualities. Sometimes I worried that I hadn't inherited the gentleness.

 

The next day passed without further mention of the subject; the huge thunderstorm that made for a wild and wet day made it hard to remember the tension between us, with thunder loud enough to make me wince. Throwing my head back to look up at the flashing sky, eyes narrowed against the lashing rain, the thought that went through my mind was that _this_ was real power; untameable, untouchable. Murtagh would have loved to see it.

            Samir didn't like the storm, and fought me all the way through it, his ears flat to the back of his head and snapping at the other two horses. He even stamped his feet at Saphira, who joined us on the ground after winds that were too powerful for her to fly through hit us. All the horses welcomed the wetness on the grass in the evening though, while we tried and mostly failed to dry out.

            I awoke the next morning in the greyness of dawn, and got up quietly, the loudest sound the crack of my joints as I stretched, padding over to Samir, who flicked his ears but didn't raise his head as I rubbed over his shoulders and back.

            "So," I said, my voice low so as not to wake the others, "you don't like storms, huh? I hope it's not the noise, or you'd be less than useless in a battle. Not that I want to take you into one, hoping to stay away from that stuff now. But they're noisy, y'know?" Samir snorted. "Yeah, I know, I've never been in one. But the practise yards are loud enough to give an idea and Father took me along with his company of soldiers once. He didn't want me to come, but he didn't stop me. Just gave me a look and nodded when I said I wanted to. Wouldn't let me get close enough to see anything, but I could hear it. It wasn't even big, just a caravan supposedly going to the Varden. Couldn't really be called a battle I guess, but I could still hear it. All steel and screaming." I gazed over Samir's back. Before then I'd never thought about my father fighting. He was so invincible, it was never a problem, because who could ever defeat him? But listening to those screams... I'd been terrified, shaking the whole time. It would only take a slip. One mistake, and he would never come back to me. I spent the whole way back wishing I hadn't gone, though I held my tongue, checking every few minutes that he was still riding beside me, not one of the four wrapped bundles on the back of the wagon. Murtagh had never asked me about it; he hadn't wanted me to go either, and I hadn't been eager to share the experience anyway. I sighed again.

            "You're alright, aren't you?" I said absently, patting Samir's neck, turning around and leaning on him as I watched the others sleep. Samir sidestepped away from me, and I had to scramble to regain my footing. "Fine," I said, shaking my head but smiling. "Grumpy old mule."

 

The sun rose above the horizon just before Brom twitched awake, Eragon and Saphira both surfacing with unnerving synchronisation a few minutes later. We didn't speak much, but the animosity had gone from the air. I knew that they hadn't forgotten my unwilling revelation, but at least they seemed to have decided to let matters lie for the moment. It was still a long day, and I couldn't help the pit of worry that formed every time I thought about our empty water skins, despite Brom's confidence in our position. He was right in his estimate of the distance to our destination, and in the mid-afternoon, Yazuac appeared on the horizon, a dark wavering bump which I would have disregarded if it weren't for Saphira's sharp eyes high above us. After that, our pace quickened, the horses picking up on our focus and lengthening their strides, though I suspected Samir only sped up to avoid being beaten by the other two, pulling on for a couple of strides after they stopped before he halted, tossing his head proudly at his lead. I rolled my eyes, rubbing his neck as I listened silently to Saphira protest at being sent away to hide while we approached the village alone, though she eventually consented

            We set off again, trotting eagerly towards the promise of real food, though our pace slowed as we grew closer and could pick out individual plumes of thin smoke from various chimneys. It was quiet. Too quiet. Saphira felt my unease and reached towards me, watching what I saw, and I felt her stretch her wings out in preparation to take to the air.

            _Don't,_ I cautioned. _We don't know what's going on. It's not worth the risk_. She growled silently at me, but remained on the ground as we drew to a halt.

            "There aren't any dogs barking," Eragon said.

            "No," Brom's voice was grim.

            "Doesn't mean anything, though."

            Brom was silent, his eyes flicking around. "No," he said eventually.

            "Someone should have seen us by now," Eragon's voice slightly rougher than normal. "Why hasn't anyone come out?"

            "Could be afraid," Brom suggested.

            "Could be," Eragon agreed hesitantly. "And if it's a trap? The Ra'zac could be waiting for us."

            "Whatever the reason," I said grimly, my eyes flicking from empty streets to empty windows, "it's not going to be good. People are usually afraid for a reason."

            "People are afraid of the dark," Eragon scoffed.

            "You can't see in the dark," I countered.

            "We need provisions," Brom cut off our debate. I hummed in response, transferring the reins to my left hand and gripping my sword.

            "So we go in?" Eragon asked, and his voice had steadied somewhat.

            "Not like fools. If there's an ambush, it will be here, on the main road. We go round the side." Brom pulled out his sword as he turned Snowfire around, trotting off round the edge of the town. Eragon readied an arrow as he followed. I hesitated, eyeing the streets one last time before I urged Samir after them, my own sword rasping as I pulled it free.

            The town was quiet, other than the dull banging of splintered doors waving on their hinges. Every direction I looked there were dark corners and empty streets, foreboding shadows cast by the late sun, and dark patterns on walls here and there. There wasn't even enough wind to carry the scent to warn us. We passed a final house and emerged into the centre of the town, a wide open square, where markets might once have been held. There was no market there now. The open space was broken by a grisly sight; a pile of bodies, as tall as the buildings behind us, blood running in scarlet rivets over staring faces and stiff limbs to soak into the muddy ground. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. They hadn't died for me to turn away from them. From young to old, none had been spared, men and women tangled together, inseparable in death. A black bird swooped down like a dark angel and I watched as it came to land on the top of a spear sticking from the peak of the pile of corpses, inches above the pitiful white shape of a baby, impaled and stuck up like some grotesque flag.

            "No, you don't," Eragon snarled, raising his bow and the arrow thrummed through the air to skewer the bird, sending it tumbling in a puff of black feathers. The next second he was being sick over the side of his horse. I looked away, swallowing down bile of my own as I nudged Samir forwards another pace. He tossed his head, uneasy at the scent of death so strong upon the air.

            "Do you want to wait for me outside Yazuac?" Brom asked from behind me. Holding my sword clear of my body, I swung a leg up and forwards, over Samir's neck, and jumped down without taking my eyes off the square, landing with a slight squelch in the damp ground, trying not to think about where the moisture had likely come from.

            "No... I'll stay," Eragon said shakily as I walked forwards. "Who could have..." His voice trailed away as I stopped a few paces away from the bodies, staring down at the face of an old woman, her expression twisted with terror around her blank eyes. Had she had children living here? Grandchildren? Had she watched them die?

            "Those who love the pain and suffering of others," Brom said sadly, in response to Eragon's unfinished question. "They wear many faces and go by many names, but there is only one name for them: evil. There is no understanding it. All we can do is pity and honour the victims." I blinked, my eyes shifting up, no longer seeing the cold corpses in front of me. _Pity and honour the victims?_ What good would pity or honour do them now?  There was another wet thud and footsteps on my left. I glanced round to meet Brom's eyes for an instant as he drew even closer to the bodies than I had, though his eyes were fixed on the ground as he paced slowly around. I looked back at the woman once more, then turned away, moving back to Samir, who backed away a pace before I grabbed his reins.

            "The Ra'zac passed this way, but this was Urgals," Brom said grimly. "These arrows are too crude to be the work of any others." He straightened up, frowning as he looked around. "Had to be at least 50, possibly 100." I looked at the pile of bodies again, and wondered if they'd had any warning, any chance for some of them to run, or if they'd only been alerted but the screams of their neighbours as they died. "They don't normally gather in such numbers," Brom continued, pacing round, away from me, then he paused, crouching down and prodding the ground with a finger. His face paled and he leapt to his feet.

            "Ride!" he hissed, almost flying into Snowfire's saddle. "There are still Urgals here!" Eragon needed no more encouragement, putting his heels to Cadoc at once. I spun on the spot and jammed my foot into Samir's stirrup, dragging myself into the saddle. He didn't wait for me, springing after the other two horses before I'd got my balance. Together we flew down the silent streets, and were almost to the edge of Yazuac when a hulking figure leapt from a dark passage, knocking Eragon from his horse with one swift movement. Eragon tumbled from the saddle, crashing into a wall as an Urgal emerged from the shadows, leering as it lunged forwards. I let out a wordless shout, drawing its attention to me as Samir tried to turn back, but I urged him forwards, kicking one leg up in front of me, and planting my foot upon the pommel of the saddle, pushing off hard as I drew level. My sword, outstretched before my body, missed its target of the Urgal's throat, but slashed across the creature's arm, cutting deep into the muscle. With a guttural roar, the beast drew back as I stumbled on landing, but turned to face it. Eragon, perhaps dazed by the impact by the wall, had only just regained his feet, and the Urgal looked between us, evaluating its possible targets.

            "Run!" I roared at the younger boy, lunging forwards to engage. The Urgal was tall and broad, but didn't expect my sudden attack, and was too slow to put its short sword to use. It caught my blow on its shield, but I twisted my blade, letting it skate off to the side, ringing on the Urgal's curling horns before dropping to its grey shoulder. I pulled back, stepping sideways to get the right angle, and my blade parted the skin and flesh of the creature's neck. Blood spurted sideways, dribbling down its chest. I danced backwards as it went down, scrabbling at the wound, but unable to stem the tide of blood. The clash of metal-on-metal, familiar to my ears, drew my eyes up and I saw Brom engaged with another Urgal, trading blows from Snowfire's back, the white horse perfectly responsive to his knees as he chopped and swung. It was only Eragon's desperate cry to Saphira in my head that made me whirl round the other way. Eragon was running back towards me, eyes determined, mouth twisted in a desperate grimacing snarl, pursued by another Urgal. I hissed, twirling my sword as I stepped clear of the body sprawled across the street. Eragon flashed past me, and I pushed him on with one hand, planting myself firmly between him and the oncoming monster. There were several paces between them, and I had plenty of time to see its grey skin and yellow eyes bearing down on me. It didn't slow down, but swung its axe wildly as we collided. I just about managed to turn the blow, but an elbow came up on the other side and smashed into the side of my face, spinning me off to the side, my head colliding with a window shutter. I slashed blindly behind me as I stumbled away, but didn't connect. Blinking against the pain on both sides of my head, I turned. Eragon had collided with the Urgal who'd been fighting Brom, who was now slumped motionless over Snowfire's neck. I blinked, and Eragon was gone, the two Urgals springing down an alleyway. I moved forwards, my head throbbing, my feet unsteady, but upright and determined. Brom was bleeding from a wound on his arm, but I knew what his priority would have been, so I left the old Rider, barely pausing to reach out and check on Saphira's position before plunging down the alleyway after Eragon and the Urgals. I came to a fork and hesitated, looking left and right. There was a shout from my left, a flash of blue and I let out a scream of my own as my left calf _burned_.

            My knee buckled, and I only narrowly avoided chopping off my own fingers as I threw out a hand to catch myself, releasing my sword as I curled round and pulled up my pant leg. The burn on my calf, so quiet and innocent recently, was glowing, the white mark luminescent in the shadowed alleyway, icy pain searing in my leg, though my searching fingers found no chill on the surface. The pain faded quickly, dissipating like mist under morning sun, but I continued to stare down at my leg, gasping with the memory of the pain. After several seconds of quiet, I looked up, eyes turning to the left, where the blue flash had come from. _Eragon._ Gritting my teeth, I stood slowly, expecting the pain to return at any moment. When it did not, I scooped up my sword and advanced. I could feel Saphira coming closer, though still some way off, and reached for her, but my leg pulsed sharply and I pulled back, my step faltering for a second at the throb of pain that resonated from my leg to my head and back again. I paused at the next junction, looked left, then right. Several feet away lay the remains of two urgals. The top one had an arrow sticking from its forehead, with black scorch marks all around. The second one, slightly larger, was crumpled underneath it, but as I staggered past, I couldn't see any wounds or blood. Across from them was another opening, and at the end of the alley, slumped against a wall, was a figure. I reached Eragon and crouched down, reaching out with bated breath. I'd felt Saphira earlier, surely she would have known... I pressed my fingers against his neck and found a pulse. Letting out a sigh and a heavy breath, I glanced behind me, then sheathed my sword. Eragon stirred slightly as I pulled him up, ducking under his shoulder and hauling him away. He staggered along, a dead weight next to me, feet scuffing along the ground, but recovered quickly, taking some of his own weight by the time we reached the main street.

            "Toren?"

            "Easy," I reassured him as he squirmed. "You okay?"

           "Tired," he mumbled, as Cadoc came trotting up the street towards us. "Good, you weren't hurt," Eragon said, as I released him. He swayed a little, but remained upright, taking hold of Cadoc's reins. I looked round, but Snowfire and Brom weren't in sight. Leaving Eragon with his horse, I strode off down the street, looking down each passage, my hand on my sword, ready for any more surprises. Nothing jumped out at me, and I spotted the white stallion stepping nervously on the spot at the corner of a house just off the main street. Dropping my pace, I approached carefully, but the horse snorted, tossing his head and backing away, ears pressed back to his skull.

            "Wait," Eragon said, from behind me, and I paused, looking back as he stared for a second at Snowfire who quietened instantly. I nodded him a thanks then approached the animal, who stood still this time. Brom was still unconscious on his back, his right arm soaked in blood. Eragon hissed lightly as he saw the wound, leaving Cadoc to stagger up to us.

            "Go round the other side, get his other foot out the stirrup," I instructed, unhooking the foot closest to me. Eragon obeyed, and I pulled Brom towards me, his dead weight making me stagger backwards. I lowered the old man to the ground, trying to make sure his head didn't drop too heavily and began to roll back Brom's sleeve when a scream of utter fury filled my head, making it throb even more, and my leg burned again. My gasp of pain was lost as Saphira dropped from the sky, the ground shaking as she landed.

            _Are you hurt?_ she snarled, and I couldn't stop myself pressing one hand to the side of my head, eyes watering as I struggled to shut her out.

            "No," Eragon assured her as he crouched on the other side of Brom, and I took my hand from the side of my head. "You're hurt," he said to me, looking at my hand, which was indeed dotted with blood.

            "It's fine," I said, though the wound where I'd hit the house after being elbowed by the Urgal was still throbbing. My head spun a little, a whisper tickling my ears as Saphira spoke again, but her words were faint enough for me to shut them out, and there was no accompanying pain.

            "It'll do no good," Eragon said, gesturing past me. "They're already dead." I turned my attention back to baring Brom's wound, which was deeper than I'd expected, a cruel slash right down his right bicep. I cursed silently to myself, wishing I had the little box that had lived in our kitchen, always stocked with needle and thread.

            "We need something to bind this," I said, half to myself, but Eragon stood at once, going over to Cadoc and rummaging through his saddlebags, glancing over at Saphira as he went and nodding.

            "Somehow," he answered her silent question. "I just shot an arrow, but then there was a blast of blue light. I don't know what happened." He glanced round at me, but I shrugged.

            "I don't know. After I got knocked against the wall I saw you leading them away from Brom and followed. Lost you for a little while, but I saw the light and found you." Saphira hummed deep in her chest as Eragon came back with a long rag, crouching down and wiping Brom's wound out before binding it tightly. I watched his hands, surprisingly deft in their movements, then glanced round, my eyes settling on a sword, dropped in the middle of the street. Leaving Eragon to his work, I went over and picked it up, recognising it as Brom's as I hefted it in my hand. It was a little longer than mine, but a bit narrower. I wiped it clean and took it over to Snowfire, strapping it tightly to his back.

            "Toren?" Eragon called softly, and I looked round. "Help me get Brom onto Saphira?" I went over and together we heaved Brom up. He seemed even heavier this time, but I managed to get most of his weight over my right shoulder we staggered towards Saphira, who crouched as low as she could to help us. Eragon scrambled round to her other side, and together we managed to heave Brom into the saddle. We were tightening the straps round his legs when he moaned and shifted, eyes opening at last. He blinked blearily, then focused on Eragon.

            "Did Saphira get here in time?"

            Eragon shook his head, exchanging a brief glance with me. "I'll explain later. Your arm is injured. I bandaged it as best I could, but you need a safe place to rest."

            Brom groaned in agreement. "Do you know where my sword..."

            "I got it," I said quickly. "It's on Snowfire."

            Eragon finished the straps on his side and stepped back. "Saphira's going to take you and follow me in the air."

            "Are you sure?" asked Brom. "I can ride Snowfire."

            "Not with that arm," Eragon pointed out. "This way, at least if you faint, you won't fall off."

            "I'm honoured," Brom said seriously, wrapping his good arm around Saphira's neck, and we both backed away as she took off.

            "Let's go," Eragon said wearily, but I shook my head.

            "I'm going to stay for a little while, take a look around. See if I can work out what happened? I need to find Samir anyway."

            Eragon gave me a look. "Isn't it obvious what happened?"

            "Just go on without me," I said, "I'll catch up."

            "How will you find us?"

            "Saphira," I shrugged. Eragon hesitated, frowning, then nodded.

            "Alright. Are you okay to bring Snowfire along with you?"

            I nodded, and linked my fingers to give him a boost onto Cadoc. He sat a little slumped in the saddle, still clearly exhausted, his eyes unfocused for a second.

            "Saphira says she can see him. Up there," Eragon pointed off to the side, and I nodded, grateful.

            "Thanks."

            "Thank you," Eragon said seriously. "When the first Urgal came at me..."

            I shook my head. "It's fine. Don't mention it." Eragon met my gaze for another second, then nodded. "Go on," I pushed Cadoc lightly away, and Eragon turned away, urging Cadoc to a trot and soon lost from view. I grabbed Snowfire's reins to keep him from following, and lead him instead through the streets in the direction Eragon had indicated.

            Samir was wandering through the empty streets, head to the ground as he snuffled his way along the floor, looking up as he heard us approaching. He backed away, baring his teeth and flattening his ears as I grabbed his reins, shaking my head.

            "Nice to see you're okay, too." I lead them both towards the edge of the village and tied them to separate hitching posts, to keep Samir from bothering Snowfire. Then I moved over to the closest house, and pushed the door open.

            The door scraped across the floor, hanging off its hinge, the wood splinted by a boot or fist, and there were more signs of a struggle inside. Two stools were tipped over on the floor, and another was lying in pieces beside a pile of shattered pottery. On a ledge at the side of the room, next to a still smoking fire, were three loaves of bread, untouched and perfect. I moved over and picked one of them up. It was still warm. I righted one of the stools and sat down slowly, looking round again, taking in every detail of the ruined home. On the wall next to the door was a smear of blood, the outline of small, desperate fingers clearly visible, a dark imitation of a child's art. Staring at the blood, I remembered the pile of bodies, the silent village a testimony to shattered lives and alone in the quiet room, I put my face in my hands and wept for the dead.

 

It was dark by the time I reached the clearing where Brom and Eragon were sitting around a fire, Saphira's presence a honing beacon that had lead me to them without any difficulty. All three of them looked up as I came into the firelight, and Eragon stood up to take Snowfire's reins, moving him over to Cadoc while I kept Samir from biting his rump. He hadn't been happy about riding with the other horse so close, and bared his teeth at me too as I lead him across to the other side of the fire.

            "How's the arm?" I asked Brom as I let Samir's head drop to a patch of grass.

            The old man grimaced, but shrugged. "It'll heal," he said.

            "What's this?" Eragon said suddenly, and I glanced round. He'd flipped back the cover of one of Snowfire's bulging saddlebags, to reveal a bunch of greens, a seeded loaf of bread and a wineskin. I turned back to Samir as Brom's eyes flicked back to me as well.

            "Provisions," I said shortly. "That was why we went in there in the first place, wasn't it?"

            "You stole it."

            I turned back to Eragon. "Should I have left some money for them? Or would you prefer it was simply left to rot?"

            "They died—!" Eragon began hotly, but I cut him off.

            "Yes! They died. Horribly. And there is nothing we can do to change that, or bring them back." We glared at each other.

            "You shouldn't have taken it," Eragon growled, taking a step towards me.

            Raising a finger, I pointed at Saphira. "What is she?"

            "What?" Eragon blinked suspiciously, taken aback.

            " _What_ is she?"

            "A dragon."

            "And what are you?" I snapped, dropping my finger. He was silent, so I answered for him. "A Rider. Her Rider. You can make a difference, Eragon. One day, you'll be able to stop that sort of thing from happening. But you need to get to that day first, and starving won't help. The dead have no use for food." I turned away.

            "They didn't die so that we could come along and loot their homes!" Eragon shouted, and I could hear him advancing towards me from behind. "Or doesn't death mean anything to you?!"

            I didn't even stop to think. I should have done, undoubtedly. If I'd thought about it, put any rational arguments into my head, I probably wouldn't have done it. But I didn't think. So I spun round, hauled back, and punched him as hard as I could.

            Father had never really approved of brawling; he said it was uncivilised. I thought it was highly effective to make a point. So I made a point, with my fist.

            Punching someone isn't like stabbing them. You don't need to know how to stand or turn or swing to punch someone hard. You just need strength in your arm. So I hit him. Hard. Saphira snarled, her head rising to its full height, but I barely noticed, because my hand really, really hurt. If it hadn't have been shaking already, it would have been after that. It was then that I revised my assessment of punching people. It's just like swordplay. You don't need training to do it, but you do need training to do it without injuring yourself. My anger wasn't going to let something like a poorly knuckle slow me down though. Eragon had staggered backwards until he hit a tree, half sprawling against it, and I had the high ground.

            "I killed to save a life," I growled, pretending that the darkness of my voice wasn't partially from the sting of my hand, "the life of someone I cared about. If I had to make the same decision again, I would." I raised my shaking hand without thinking and pointed back towards Yazuac, then immediately dropped it, relaxing my screaming fingers, trying to play the gesture off as a wave rather than an ominous point. "And there are two bodies back there that prove you're a killer now too."

            "There's a difference between people and monsters," Eragon said, his words slurred slightly by his bloody lip.

            "People can be monsters too," I said, the words coming with more calmness than I felt. For a moment we just stared at each other, neither of us speaking. I moved first, taking a step backwards, my eyes seeing the blood on his chin as what it was for the first time.

           "I think it's time for me to go," I said, and there were no objections. Taking Samir's reins in my uninjured hand, I glanced once at Brom before pushing my way out of the clearing into the silent darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's definitely going to be a break before the next chapter, because - for the first time - I'm going to have a go at NaNo, and it won't be with this work, so not planning on any progress for at least the next month. Since I already had this chapter, thought I should probably give it to you, but that's all there will be for a while. Sorry, and I will come back to it, hopefully with another 50,000 words under my belt for added experience.
> 
> Thanks again to onoheiwa for their help, it means the world to me.

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite thanks to onoheiwa, my wonderful beta, for helping me with this, putting up with all my stupid mistakes, and general improving the quality to a read-able standard. They're amazing.
> 
> By some miracle or mistake, I'm on Tumblr! You can message me there, or just sit back and laugh as I stumble my way through life...  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lmere19


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